


Set In Stone

by HeartOfAspen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient History, Curse Breaking, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfAspen/pseuds/HeartOfAspen
Summary: After a disappointing career at the Ministry, Hermione rearranges her life to become a runic translator and curse-breaker. But her life is far from whole. Will a mishap at an ancient magical worksite in Ireland, help her rediscover her passion? EWE; a story told in five parts.





	1. Overture

_Scratch, scratch, scratch._ Nose practically touching the giant, rune-covered stone in front of her, Hermione was fastidiously scribbling away at her parchment, eyes barely looking at what she was writing. It was not until her quill punctured right through the page that she stopped and glanced over, only to realize that her translations had been written with a definite slant. They now formed an inky slope across the page, narrowly missing the edges. A bit of grass from the hillside had also smudged some of the fresh ink, smearing it and making it somewhat less legible.

"Bother," she muttered under her breath. Setting her quill down, she flapped the parchment through the air a few times to dry the ink before shuffling the page to the bottom of her stack. She did not have time for setbacks when the sun would only be out for another hour or so; she would fix it later.

A crisp, no-nonsense voice wafted toward her from the nearby research site: "Is there some reason you're manhandling my instruments, Weasley?"

Her head swiveled toward the sound. A short distance away, her colleague, Oona Bayless, had her back to her - but it did not matter, because the older witch's ire could be sensed even from where Hermione sat atop the enormous slab of stone she was deciphering. Oona's hands were on her hips and Hermione could almost visualize her huffing in annoyance.

"Ah, Oona, darling," Bill Weasley was laughing good-naturedly, "you know I would never do such a thing!"

"A likely story. You're a brute with my telescopes and you know it!"

"You wound me," Bill insisted, pressing a hand to his chest in mock-anguish.

Hermione smiled to herself as she looked fondly over at her colleagues' silhouettes in the waning September sunlight. Oona was short and thin enough that it appeared as if a strong wind might carry her away - if it would dare to do such a thing to such a witch - and she sported a long, gray plait that hung well past her waist. Bill, tall and muscular, had red hair nearly as long as Oona's, which he had pulled back into a ponytail. The way the setting sun's pale rays were falling on him threw the unfortunate scarring on his face and neck into greater relief.

The research site consisted mainly of a mid-sized, canvas canopy they had erected five days ago with two long tables and a pile of trunks stored beneath. There was also an overbuilt, claw-footed writing desk of Oona's, definitely an antique, that sat in the center, looking significantly out-of-place in an outdoor setting. A short way away, was a simmering cauldron hanging from a wrought iron tripod over a low flame, while a few steps from there, Bill was attempting to set up Oona's telescopes... and getting an earful.

"Mind the refractor lenses!"

But Bill only laughed, "I have been."

"You're going to break something, I just know it!"

Though Oona might complain to - and about - Bill with near-scheduled regularity, Hermione had heard the magi-historian say (in unguarded moments), that he really was one of the best colleagues she could ask for. They might not, strictly speaking, be peers - but they bickered like a married couple, despite the nearly sixty years' difference in their ages. As for Bill, he enjoyed goading Oona, mainly because her fiery temper made sure that she would always rise to his teasing.

Turning back to the work at hand, Hermione sighed audibly when she realized that she had lost her place in the translations. Glancing downward, she took in the sight of the huge stone, the top of which faced the sun and was covered in a veritable novella of runes. The enormous monolith protruded from the grassy hillside as if it had been stuck there by accident, but was supported by two smaller granite obelisks. The entire structure resembled something like a doorframe... and there was a good chance that it was one. The Ministry had sent Oona, Bill, and Hermione as a team of representatives from the Department for the Preservation of Magical History, to see what they could discover. So far, the main issue was that instead of leading somewhere, the alleged passage only contained grass and dirt and rock, ending at the side of the hill that supported it. Undeterred, especially where magic was concerned, Hermione had been eager to study what appeared to be a place of ancient magical importance.

At the moment, however, her back was aching, her neck was stiff, and her wrist was cramping. Now, all she _really_ wanted, was to sit down somewhere comfortably and enjoy a cup of tea. Or maybe a glass of wine. Or several glasses of wine.

Instead of coming to conclusions and making fascinating discoveries, here she was, practically sprawled across an enormous slab of granite for the fifth day in a row, trying to decipher the runes of times long past. Her mind craved something else to obsess over, almost _anything_ else. But this was her task, why she had been hired on with this group - and she was nearly finished… nearly there.

Closing her eyes, she tried to find her focus.

The air was cool and dry, and an occasional breeze pushed some of her stray curls loose from the bun at the back of her head. If she strained her ears, she could hear a church bell from the nearest town tolling in the far-off distance: one, two, three, four, five, six times. Yes, it was long past time for a cup of tea…

Opening her eyes again, she took in the landscape spreading out before her. Grasses, sedges, and sorrel made for relatively immutable scenery, but the alternative was to slog through the collection of centuries-old runes that had been partially - or in some places, almost completely - obliterated by time. The Hermione of years ago would likely have relished the task... and some part of her still did, she supposed.

"You find anything noteworthy in that jumble?"

Looking up, she found that Bill had joined her - and that he had brought her both her sweatshirt and a cup of tea. The china cup seemed nearly a novelty in this setting, but that did not bother her in the slightest.

"You're a lifesaver, Bill," Hermione proclaimed, taking the sweatshirt first and yanking it over her head. She then had to fix her bun, which she had mussed with the action, before accepting the teacup.

"Take a break," he suggested.

"Oh, but I wanted to finish this tonight…" she glanced downward at her haphazard stack of untidy parchments, so unlike the neatly prepared documents she had used to produce with zealous efficiency.

"Finish it tomorrow. What are you in such a hurry for?"

"Well… I only have two lines of runes left to translate."

"And how long is that going to take?"

She glanced guiltily up at the sky, knowing he had a point. "About… two hours. Maybe three."

"So, finish tomorrow!"

Wrapping her hands around her teacup before taking a long sip, she made a contented sigh. Pacified, she finally responded, "To answer your question, I'm not sure if I've found anything… there's certainly a lot written here, but it's all in Irish. I'm doing my best, but I can't tell if I've made a mistake because I don't even know what I'm writing. Did Oona ever manage to contact a translator?"

"Sure did," Bill grinned, taking a seat on the grassy hillside beside her. "You want to try guessing who she got?"

"You know I hate guessing. Who?"

"Seamus Finnegan. Wasn't he in your year?"

"No kidding!" Hermione exclaimed in surprise. "I've barely seen him since we left school. I had no idea he had become a translator..."

She thought back to the numerous times she had given a scolding to both Seamus and Dean for making too much noise in the Gryffindor common room. But while Dean had generally been sympathetic to Hermione's studying needs, Seamus had often responded with a cheeky wink and suggested, in his broad Irish lilt, that she could use a Cheering Charm and a break from having her nose in her books. Looking back on it now, Hermione thought he had probably been right.

"Heard he's still single. Maybe you should ask him out for a pint?"

Hermione snorted and gave Bill a small shove; he barely budged. "Don't be ridiculous. I haven't got the time for any sort of relationship. As you well know, I'm dating my job. Besides… it's Seamus."

"Ten years can change a person, Hermione," he insisted, looking at her meaningfully.

"It hasn't changed how meddling _you_ are," she retorted, this time only in partial playfulness.

"Hey," he said softly, looking half-apologetic. "I'm only saying because I care, you know?"

She took another sip of her tea, this time mostly to give her a few extra seconds to think of an appropriate response. "Not everyone can balance a loving spouse, a few children, _and_ being a curse-breaker. We aren't all you."

He laughed, though it did not entirely reach his eyes; Hermione knew he worried about her. He was always asking questions - far more personal ones than any regular colleague might. Some of that could simply be attributed to Bill's natural warmth, but Hermione also knew that he looked on her nearly as a sister.

It had been Bill that had given Hermione the itch for magical history in the first place. He had got a more localized job in England after the war, in order to spend more time at home with Fleur and their growing family.

Dissatisfied as Hermione had been at her post-Hogwarts job, coupled with her internal battle against a swiftly growing depressive malaise, Bill's exciting stories of his curse-breaking adventures and historical discoveries had saved her from the continuous downward spiral. He had scooped her up for his research team with little more than a, "Well, Hermione, how are you with runes? Oona and I have been looking for a new translator."

It was unclear if Bill was aware, in taking her on, how much of a hand he'd had in helping Hermione turn her life back around. Sometimes she thought he knew - other times, not.

That had been three years ago.

Three years since…

_No._

To make it clear she did not want to discuss her personal life, Hermione abruptly changed the subject, "What new things have the two of you found out today?"

"Oona thinks the entrance might be a moon door," Bill told her, taking the hint. His eyes flickered upward to the sky, where the sun was continuing its fairly uninspiring exit, then back down to the enormous stone Hermione was translating. His gaze trailed off the edge of it and fell over the side. "She thinks it looks similar to some druid temple she studied in Pyrenees forty years ago, I guess."

"Fascinating," Hermione remarked, leaning in closer. "Have the two of you decided this _is_ a temple, then? Like the one we found on the edge of that cliff in Scotland?"

"Or that one we found right in-between those two Muggle houses in the center of that little village, remember?" Bill chuckled, leaning over her notes to see what had been written there so far. " _I_ think it's a crypt. Judging from the echolocation spells I've done so far, it seems as if there's a kind of underground labyrinth. Possibly it contains chambered passages like what the Egyptians constructed, though perhaps not so elaborate."

Laying her hand on the cool stone with a measure of reverence, Hermione murmured, "Whatever secrets this place holds, it's been keeping them for 6000 years, at least. Oona definitely thinks the front structure is a gate of some kind?"

"Almost certainly." Bill shifted where he sat, then stood, his blue eyes taking in the entirety of the mounded hill with the monolith.

Instinctually following his gaze, Hermione set her teacup down on top of the stone. When she stood, she could feel her spine protesting how she had been bent over her work for so many hours, and she took a moment to stretch it out.

Despite the interesting potential for what the runes on the top of the suspended dolmen might say, the real eye-grabbing structure was the tree that stretched from the top of the hill. It was so weathered, so gnarled, it had to be older than a millennia; it no longer flowered or produced leaves, and yet, it was inexplicably alive. The roots of it were enormous, curling around the monolithic slab Hermione had been obsessing over, before they disappeared into the earth. Diagnostic spells on the site had revealed that the hilltop and surrounding area were heavily cloaked with layers of some kind of ancient magic, while the tree on top emanated something else. Something that was distinctly Dark.

"It's really something, isn't it?" Oona had joined them.

"Yes," Hermione nodded in agreement. "Though… I wish I were getting somewhere with these translations. Maybe we could know more."

"Don't be ridiculous, Granger," Oona replied. The words themselves were harsh, but the manner in which they were said was soothing. "It's not your responsibility to also speak Irish on top of everything else you do… and you're still doing the bulk of the translating. Getting the runes into a Latin alphabet is no small task."

Appreciating this reminder, a small smile curled at the corners of Hermione's mouth. She had only learned how to smile again a little over a year ago. Since…

_No._

"I just hope they mean something, in the end."

"Oh, I've no doubt they will," the other witch assured her.

"I think it's a crypt," Bill reiterated, "and I suspect the runes will tell us that, once they're fully translated."

"There hasn't been a magical crypt like this one found in Ireland, to my knowledge, _ever_ ," Oona protested, her beady eyes fixed on the tree atop the dolmen. "Especially not one that is partially living."

"Another discovery you can add to your résumé, eh?" Bill teased, slyly giving his older colleague a side-eye.

The little witch waved a hand at him dismissively, ignoring him. To Hermione, she continued, "You find anything of interest up there today?"

Hermione shook her head. "I was just telling Bill, the only ones I've recognized continue to be the two right over the entryway, on either side of that single Irish word etched into the center."

" _Othala_ and _wunjo_ ," Oona repeated, less to confirm the fact and more to review it. Her eyes darted to the suspended dolmen protruding from the hill, where the two runes in question were deeply prominent right on the front.

"Right. _Othala_ for ancestral power, plus _wunjo_ for harmony and perfection." Hermione had repeated this many times by now - but at least it made her feel useful, having uncovered nothing else of import until they could get Seamus to translate the Irish to English.

"Seems like we're probably dealing with a narcissist," remarked Bill.

"Or some evocation for the future keepers of the temple," Oona swiftly cut in, always eager to contradict him. "Or even as a devotional gift to a god or goddess."

"Unless it _is_ a crypt, like I think," he countered, grinning, "and not a temple, like _you_ think."

Hermione secretly agreed with Oona, though she had learned long ago not to get herself involved with sides when it came to the two of them. Still, Bill knew what he was talking about, too. She would just have to wait and see.

The three of them were shortly distracted by a 'pop' of Apparition near their worksite. A moment later, Hermione's face was breaking into a smile and she cried, "Seamus!"

"Well, I'll be hexed and left for the pixies! _Hermione_?"

She swiftly crossed the lawn toward the new arrival, warmly shaking her old school-fellow's hand. The wizard looked much the same as he always had, though there were a few lines around his eyes these days. It was otherwise the same pale face, the same sandy hair, same mischievous eyes. "It's good to see you."

"And you!"

"How you doing, Finnegan?" Bill greeted affably. "Allow me to introduce the she-dragon in charge of this rumpus: this is Oona Bayless."

"If I _were_ a she-dragon, I'd have incinerated you long ago for your cheek, young man," Oona scoffed. She held out a wrinkled hand to Seamus, "Pleasure to meet you. I see you already are acquainted with Granger, here."

"We were in the same year at Hogwarts," Hermione explained.

Seamus added, "Gryffindor."

"I see. Well, your services as an Irish translator came highly recommended, Mr. Finnegan, I hope you won't let us down."

"I can start right away, ma'am," Seamus offered deferentially.

"Good. We need to break to get supper started. Granger can show you what she's translated and where."

Stomach grumbling at the mere mention of a hot meal, Hermione swallowed her disappointment that it was not quite yet time to stop working, and instead turned to Seamus again. "My notes are up by that stone there." _And my tea._ "Care to come and take a look?"

Bill accompanied the two of them back to the dolmen, where Hermione climbed up the side of the hill to perch on top and retrieve her notes. Her cup of tea, now cold, still sat at the top, resting on her stack of parchment. She took her translations in hand, setting the teacup back down on the stone with a _clack_ , and rejoined the two wizards at the bottom. Bill was already explaining the inherent Dark magic emanating from the tree at the top of the hill.

"It _is_ an impressive sight," Seamus was admitting as he eyed it speculatively.

"Yes," Hermione agreed, inserting herself back into the conversation as she shuffled through her notes, "as is that huge, granite slab beneath it, covered in runes…"

"And all your translations are coming up Irish, are they?"

"Yes," she said again, tucking a few flyaway strands of hair behind her ear. "As you can see, over the front there are those two runes on the outside, but then the one word in the middle."

She pointed to the word on the page: _oscail_. She had tried saying it aloud several times, both with and without her wand in hand. Nothing had happened.

"It means 'open'," Seamus told her, eyebrows raised as he glanced toward the stones arranged into the hillside. "Is that meant to be a doorframe?"

"We aren't sure," Bill answered. "It sure looks like one… but there appears to be an enchantment of sorts on the place and we haven't figured out how to un-gate it yet. Oona thinks it's got something to do with the phases of the moon, but she's still working on that theory."

Instinctively, Hermione glanced up toward the sky, looking for the first sight of the waning crescent moon that sometimes showed itself in the still-light sky; it had not yet made an appearance. As if in reminder of the season, a light chill brushed across her shoulders, making her thankful for the light sweatshirt she had donned earlier.

"Surely it can't be so simple as walking up to the door," Hermione went to the hillside, facing the door-like structure and raising her wand, "and saying the word _oscail_."

She had known it would not work, because she had already tried it a handful of times.

Seamus laughed. "The probability of that is more your expertise. What I can tell you, is that it's absolutely not going to work if you're pronouncing it like _oss-cayl_. That's English pronunciation, that is. You've got to say it like an Irishman, you know? _Oscail_."

For a split-second, Hermione registered that it had indeed sounded different when Seamus spoke it; he had almost entirely dropped the last two letters from the word. But her attention was swiftly diverted from Irish dialects into overwhelming surprise, when a cavernous hole materialized in front of her in the center of the stone doorframe of the structure.

For a moment, the three of them only stared into the yawning blackness… and then, Hermione's wand hand began to tingle with magic. She opened her mouth to say something - to perhaps issue a warning to the two wizards beside her - when a strong wind charged out from within the hillside and enveloped her. It pulled the air straight from her lungs; gasping did nothing for relief.

"Hermione!" Bill's terrified voice could distantly be heard. This was followed by a complete silence as she was sucked into the abyss and the hole swiftly closed itself back up behind her, engulfing her in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er. *shuffles awkwardly* I have no right starting another WIP right now. Yes, I know. Sorry. Blame my trigger finger for wanting to post, and my inherent impatience for being unable to wait.
> 
> Two things: 1) Just to clarify, yes I did mean to write 'Irish' and not 'Gaelic' so I'm going to pre-empt reviews of that nature by revealing my lack of ignorance on that topic. The language referenced is Irish Gaelic, not Scottish Gaeilge... and as it takes place in Ireland, there is no need to specify; 2) This is going to be a short fic, with only five chapters planned.
> 
> I also owe thanks to some folks. Firstly, to both Witches_Britches and sarena for offering their alpha services and essentially making me re-write the whole thing at least three times (for the better). Secondly, to LaBelladoneX for helping me out with the Irish translations here, and in the posts to come. Lastly, to you - for reading. Thank you.


	2. Allemande

Darkness. Everywhere was darkness… and as Hermione had been yanked into the hillside and thrown forcefully onto stone, there was also pain. Shards of something littered the ground around and beneath her, some of it sharp, and some of it lumpy - all of it hard. As she lay there, winded by the impact, a piece of whatever-it-was crunched under her, digging painfully into her spine.

With a groan, she forced herself to sit upright. Her head hurt, and she had choked on a good bit of her hair, which had ended up in her mouth when she had screamed. Body aching, she pushed her hair from her face, only to realize that her hand had left a bloodied path where it touched. Readjusting, she staunched the flow of blood from her cut hand by pressing it against her sweatshirt; it was all she could manage while still trying to catch her breath. Meanwhile, the scattered objects on the floor clacked with her movement.

_ Light. I need light. _

She reached for her wand, but discovered it missing. A feeling of dread swooped low into her stomach. Feeling grim at the loss of this essential tool, she closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain all over her body, and called on her inner vestiges of magic. “ _ Lumos. _ ”

A ball of light stuttered into existence over her head, casting odd shadows around the area. After a brief moment, wherein she took in her surroundings - she screamed.

The floor was littered with bones. Human-looking bones.

With horror, she lifted her uninjured hand from the stone floor, where it had rested beside a fractured jawbone. She scrambled to her feet; not an easy task, as she nearly lost her balance when she accidentally slipped on a broken femur by her foot. Finding her bearing, she took deep steadying breaths, her sore body screaming resistance at her movement.

Trying to get a grip on herself, she murmured, “They’re just bones. They can’t hurt you…”

But there certainly were a lot of them… and she suspected they had not got there without cause. A troubling thought.

Steeling her nerves, she squinted down at her injured hand where she still had it pressed against her sweatshirt. It was leaving a crimson stain several inches long, and had not stopped bleeding. She glanced upward at the meager ball of light she had created. Having never become fully used to wandless magic, she quickly deemed it unlikely that she would be able to maintain both the light  _ and _ a healing spell. Especially not in her present, injured state.

Creakily, she began to move around the small chamber, examining it to try finding an answer as to where she might be. After a few minutes of sleuthing, she froze when she thought she saw a familiar sight. Squinting through the pale light, she peered into a gaping ribcage that rested against the dirt wall.

“Oh, thank Merlin…” she gasped, sagging with relief as she extracted her wand from its gruesome container.

Releasing her wandless magic, she plunged the room briefly back into darkness before casting a  _ lumos  _ through her wand instead. The light was stronger this way, and maintaining the beam used less of her energy... energy she suspected she would need to get herself out of this place.

But where was she, exactly? On the interior of the hillside she had been studying, obviously... but what  _ was  _ this place?

It appeared to be an antechamber of sorts, because the room was bare of anything but for the collection of skeletons on the ground. She studied these a moment: there were probably about ten, and most were leaned up against the walls, as if the person they had once been, had died sitting there. The two she had toppled onto at her entry were mostly broken into pieces, at least in part because she had crushed them; these had been resting in the center of the room.

_ If they were flung in with as much force as I was, maybe that was what killed them… _

She was suddenly grateful they had been there to break her fall, even if her hand was bleeding because of it. Without further ado, she cleansed and healed the gash as best she could, wiping the excess blood onto her jeans.

The most gruesome of the skeletons was one that appeared to have sprouted an additional head, its mouths wide open as if in surprise. It was sitting by the only opening that led out of the antechamber. Hermione paced slowly toward it, not in a hurry to experience the same dreadful fate as the late sufferer by the doorway.

_ Perhaps… perhaps passing through this arched way is how the skeleton came to have an additional head… _ Unconsciously, she rubbed at her aching neck, as if to be sure she, too, had not sprouted any additional appendages.

She was distracted by a silvery light that entered from the dirt wall to her left. Though her wand was raised at the intrusion in an instant, she nearly cried out with relief when she recognized Bill’s patronus, which took the form of a peregrine falcon.

In that steady, reassuring voice of his, the falcon spoke, “Hermione, are you alright? Are you hurt? Is there danger? If you receive this message, we are seeking help.”

The patronus disappeared once its message was conveyed. She wished it could have stayed; even this false presence of Bill had been heartening.

Not wanting her colleagues to worry, she immediately cast her own patronus to respond. “ _ Expecto patronum _ .”

Her little field mouse appeared, and though she was grateful that her magic had not been dampened (it was not difficult to recall a dryad temple they had studied two years ago, where magic had barely worked at all), Hermione missed her otter. Especially now. It had been playful and strong, and she had loved watching it twist through the air. There was nothing wrong with a field mouse, she supposed: despite their small size, their senses were sharp and they had speed on their side. It was more that her patronus had changed _at_ _all_ , that made her resentful. But that had happened over three years ago now, and she had begun to get used to the change.

If only…

_ No.  _ Now was not the time to dwell.

She took a deep breath. “I’m okay,” she spoke into the tip of her lightly-glowing wand. “I’m in an antechamber of some sort, with skeletons - one of them seems to have been cursed, as it has two heads. There’s a pathway that leads out of the room, which appears to be the only way in or out.” The silvery field mouse swiftly scurried through the dirt wall with her message.

Barely a minute later, in trotted Oona’s Irish wolfhound patronus with another message, spoken in her clipped, no-nonsense tone: “Hold tight and don’t panic. Finnegan is translating your Irish. We are trying to find a way to get you out of there.”

Hermione experienced a pang of jealousy for a moment that the runic inscriptions she had been slaving over for the past five days were now being translated without her. Still, she supposed that on the flip side,  _ she  _ was now the one inside the tomb-or-temple instead of Bill or Oona. Perhaps it was only fair. Not that there was anything noteworthy here, except that two-headed skeleton by the door...

Trying to keep herself occupied, she paced the room, respectfully stepping over the skeletons wherever she encountered their scattered remains. It was cold in there; she pulled her bloodied sweatshirt’s sleeves down and hugged herself a bit. The walls and ceiling were made of the same dirt of the hillside, but the floor was stone - a kind of slate, or so it looked like.

When she came to the archway leading from the chamber, her wandlight shone into the passageway. It looked to be more of the same surroundings, though it shortly appeared to split off into two directions. The air, she noticed, smelled less stagnant through there than the room she was in - though it also smelled  _ old _ .

_ Bill said his echolocation spells hinted at an underground labyrinth _ , she recalled with curiosity.

Squinting into the diminishing light in the distance, she tried to angle her  _ lumos _ so that she could see as far down the path as possible without leaving the antechamber. She must have reached further than she thought, because she stepped back in surprise when two torches flamed into illumination on the pathway.

Peering intently down the beckoning torchlight passage, Hermione’s curiosity began to get the better of her. Her gaze flickered to the two-headed skeleton for a moment before swiveling back to the tunnel beyond. Wishing there was someone else with her, even just to keep her company, she turned her full attention to the point of entry and began casting basic diagnostic spells.

The first spell gave her no feedback.

She cast another: nothing. A third revealed nothing either.

Casting a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth, she continued to receive no concerning responses from any of her spells. In fact, the only response she got at all, were traces of the same sort of Dark magic that had emanated in waves from the tree on the hilltop. While that might once have concerned her teenaged self, the intervening years had taught her that while it was prudent to be wary of Dark magic, it was not necessarily to be inherently distrusted.

When still more diagnostics came up relatively clean, she cast a long look down the passageway. Compared to the dark and heavy antechamber laden with human remains, it looked practically inviting with its flickering torches. She knew the spells she had cast would not cover  _ every _ sort of curse she might encounter here - there was still a risk. Nonetheless, she made the decision to chance it.

With a bit of dark humor lacing her voice, she turned to the two-headed skeleton and said, “Maybe I’ll be joining you in a bit.”

She stepped into the narrow tunnel, wand at the ready. The torches only continued to dance lazily, but the weight of the air she breathed in seemed immediately lighter. Shoulders relaxing, she was reassured with the thought that she had not tripped a curse.

_ Yet _ , she mentally corrected herself.

It took her awhile to make her way to the fork in the passage, given that she came to a halt every few steps to cast more diagnostic spells; the added fact that her body still ached from her initial fall, only slowed her more. When she finally came to the break, she peered first down the left way, then the right. The moment she stuck her head into the latter’s territory, more torches kindled to light her path. A short distance away, there appeared to be an entryway into another chamber. 

_ Suspicious. Do I take the way it wants me to go, possibly leading me into a trap? Or do I go the opposite way and feasibly risk the displeasure of whatever the magic wants me to do? _

Just to be sure, she stuck her arm into the left-hand passage. There was no light there to welcome her, and from her experience with curse-breaking, that was generally not a good thing. How many times had Bill told her to account for what she could see? The magic of this place clearly did not want her to see something off to the left...

_ Right it is _ .

She was about to continue when a recollection of her curse-breaking safety training from years ago, dampened her reckless curiosity:  _ communication is key _ . She called back her little field mouse with a message for Bill and Oona: “I’m moving out of the first chamber. There’s a passage leading away from it, which forks. I’ve taken the right-hand passage. There appears to be a second chamber up ahead, so I’m going to investigate.”

She started down the way; more torches flickered awake, further down. Some time and several more diagnostic spells later, she finally came to the chamber’s entrance. Her arm ached from holding her wand aloft for so lengthy a period, so that it was nearly a relief when she reached the arch. It was just tall enough for her to not have to duck, trimmed all around with what appeared to be pewter carved with symbols that meant nothing to her.

Perhaps it was paranoia, but she cast every diagnostic spell she knew of, twice.

It was dark inside: a gaping blackness like the one that had sucked her in, in the first place. Swallowing heavily, she turned her wandlight into it… and like they had in the passages leading there, more torches lit all around the vast room.

Her mouth fell open in wonder; even so, she could not stifle the sharp intake of breath at what met her eyes.

The room was large enough that it probably could have fit the entire Leaky Cauldron inside. Its focal point was the center of the chamber, where a stone slab was laden with a woven cloth, its granite corners peeking out beneath the fabric. The walls, floor, and ceiling were sprawling with intricate carvings.

“It’s an altar room,” she breathed aloud.

Slowly, she moved closer to inspect an arrangement of large, brass bells like one might have found in a church belfry, which were arranged in a semi-circle on one side of the center altar’s dais. There were twenty-six of them, the largest nearly the size of a cauldron, to the smallest, which was no bigger than her thumb.

Still periodically checking for hexes, Hermione only confirmed that she had been at the front of the altar when she moved to the side to find two steps up to the dais. Peering at the back, she noticed that one end featured an enormous cauldron, while the other had a long, wooden chest about the size of her old Hogwarts trunk.

Despite everything - being trapped, sore from her fall, and alone in a potentially dangerous place - the part of her that thrilled from exploration was exulting in the potential of her discovery. This was followed shortly by a spike of guilt; she knew her colleagues on the outside must be worrying about her.

Feeling somehow both giddy and resolute, she paused to send another patronus, “You aren’t going to believe what I’ve found in here.”

The simple truth was, this was a fantastic magical discovery... the likes of which had probably never been discovered in Ireland before - or, indeed, on the isles at all.

Oona’s wolfhound appeared a minute later, and in a terse, restrained voice, only admonished, “Don’t tease, Granger.”

Hermione smiled, despite her circumstances.

“I’ve found an altar room,” she sent back with another patronus. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before… and beautifully preserved.”

It was probably like nothing Oona, herself, had ever seen before either, she privately thought - even with all her decades of experience. Though, on the other hand, if a woman of Oona’s age had been thrown against the bone-laden stonework like Hermione had been earlier, she might not have survived. Despite her indomitable spirit, the witch  _ was _ pushing 100...

Instead of a response from either Oona or Bill however, a silvery fox trotted next into the altar room toward her. It took her a second to place it, until she recalled from her time in Dumbledore’s Army all those years ago, that Seamus’s patronus was a fox.  _ How lucky for him not to have changed so drastically at his core. _ She could not help the tang of bitterness that colored her thoughts.

The fox paced around her a moment, just like a real one might have if it had happened upon her in the wild, before speaking in that familiar lilt, “I’ve translated your Irish... at least the stuff you got to. The whole first bit says: An Teaghlach Uí Dhuibh - is uasal agus ársa - féadfaidh siad siúl go saor anseo.” After a pause, the fox continued, “What that roughly translates to is:  _ the House of Black - most noble and ancient - they may walk freely here. _ ”

Hermione’s mouth had barely formed into an O of surprise, when Bill’s peregrine flapped into the room just as the silver fox dissipated, “If this is an ancient altar belonging to the Black family, and the magic allows them to walk freely here, it is likely this means that a member of the Black family has to be the one to get you out.”

A jagged shard of fear pierced Hermione’s heart, leaving a hyperventilating hole in its wake. The Black family had once been one of the largest pureblood clans in England, but had since diminished. There were not many heirs left to its legacy - only a select few. One person in particular sprang into mind, but she had not seen  _ him _ since…

_ No _ . She firmly put him back into the furthest compartment of her mind, where she kept most of her unpleasant truths in deep storage.

Forcing herself to think of other things, she reviewed what she knew pertained to this new information. Long-since dead, Sirius had been the last heir of the House of Black, leaving none of that name in existence any longer. It was a stark fact, and she had never felt more mouse-like than when she next summoned her patronus. “But, the Blacks - they’re extinct.”

She experienced a brief mental struggle over what she hoped the answer to her predicament might be. Her self-preservation warred with her always-latent fear of having to delve through the recent past. It seemed to take an eternity for either of her colleagues’ patronuses to return with a message, though it probably had not been longer than usual.

“I have Black blood through my mother’s side,” Bill’s peregrin informed her when next it appeared. “There are other descendants of the family also, even if they don’t carry the surname. We’re thinking it should be enough.”

Silence followed. Hermione knew Bill well from her years of working alongside him - so it was not difficult to detect the uncertainty in his voice when the patronus had repeated that he thought it would be enough. Her lowly simmering disquietude began to form into full-on dread.

“I could be stuck here forever.” Saying it aloud made it real, and therefore, easier to accept. Mentally however, her morbidly logical side corrected,  _ I could be stuck here until I starve to death. _

She thought back to the collection of skeletons in the first antechamber she had been in, and could not suppress a shudder. Trying to remain optimistic, she searched her sweatshirt’s deep pockets and came up with a squashed granola bar. At least that was something - she was quite hungry by this point - but she still had no water. Perhaps eating it would only make her thirst worse.

Stuffing it back into her pocket, she decided to wait, just in case it had to sustain her for a few days. With a dry sniff, she resumed her initial task of casting diagnostic spells onto the dais before she stepped onto it, intent on distracting herself by examining the objects sitting on top of the altar.

Many of the traditional tools for witchcraft were artfully arranged on top. Hermione was not foolish enough to touch anything, especially with the two-headed skeleton still occupying her thoughts. There was an enormous bowl of what appeared to be salt chips, along with two chalices, a dagger inset with emeralds and pearls, and a set of runes that appeared to be made of bone. At the center of the table was a crystal ball, surrounded by amethyst points. Interspersed throughout, were more crystals, shells, and even a few long feathers. None of it looked as if it had been touched recently, but a lack of dust or spiderwebs had her already thinking about stasis spells and how long one could be maintained.

She took careful note of everything, wishing she had a journal with her to begin making a report. It would have made it seem like it was normal for her to be there - like she were merely in a museum, or at an archaeological dig site, and not like her life depended on the interpretation of an ancient magic.

As she approached the long, wooden chest by the side of the altar, the lid flung open. Her wand was at the ready with a  _ protego,  _ but this was apparently unnecessary. Nothing else had happened.

Releasing the shield spell, she hovered over the chest to peer at its contents from a safe distance. Inside, she discovered a wooden compass marked with runes instead of directions, plus some dried herbs and stoppered containers that appeared to hold potions.

_ There has to be a preservative spell on them, just like the room _ , she decided, thinking the herbs looked awfully fresh for something that should have disintegrated into dust centuries ago.  _ But how is the spell maintained? _

She glanced around again, as if the source might obligingly reveal itself, but nothing happened. Turning back to look into the chest, her eyes were drawn to a deck of tarot cards that appeared to be made of a strange material. Squinting suspiciously at them, she took in the stitching on the sides, which pulled at the material in a strange, but vaguely familiar way.  _ Almost like that time Dad was bitten by one of his patients and had to get stitches in his hand… _ She immediately recoiled.

Bill’s peregrine flapped back into the room, “Seamus has finished the rest of your translations. It looks like Oona was right: the moon  _ is _ important. As far as we can tell, you can only leave this place when moonlight is shining on the entrance, and in the company of a blood relative of the Black family.”

Hermione quickly ran through her memory banks, calculating what cycle of the moon they were currently in.  _ If the full was last week… _ she sighed with relief,  _ at least that means it isn’t a new. _

Her stomach rumbled, echoing ominously in the altar room. Somehow, this only seemed to exacerbate her bodily soreness from that initial fall. She wished there was time to rest, but she had no idea what time it even was, given how dark it was underground.

“ _ Tempus _ ,” she cast, checking the time.  _ Nightfall should be any minute now... _

Unable to muster either optimism or enthusiasm, she retreated to one of the corners of the room, where she sat on the cold stone floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. Allowing her head to fall back against the carved stone wall, she opted to take a few minutes to rest, and simply stared at the ornate wall opposite her. It was not a particularly productive use of her time, just waiting for something to happen, but the aching of her body made it feel necessary.

Hours passed. She had not moved, feeling more and more like a wraith in the darkness the longer she sat there. Once, she nearly got up to try exploring again, but her heart simply was not into it. Occasionally, Hermione would receive a patronus from Bill or Oona - and even another time, from Seamus - updating her on their progress, but with no conclusions.

Eventually, it was conceded by the aboveground crew that whatever Bill was doing to get inside was either not correct, or that he was not a close enough blood relative to the House of Black, being two generations removed.

“Weasley has gone to fetch an up-to-date Black family tree from the Ministry,” Oona’s next patronus told her. “Our department is aware of the situation and are doing what they can to help, but seeing as they’d normally have sent the three of us to a situation like this in the first place, they’re overconfident we’ll find the answer.” There was a pause, where Oona sighed. Hermione thought the older woman sounded tired, and wondered what the hour was now. She was, however, so exhausted from casting numerous patronuses, that she could not muster enough energy to cast another  _ tempus _ . “Meantime, Finnegan’s got a plan…”

Seamus’s silvery fox danced into the chamber, where Hermione was still huddled against the wall, feeling just a little bit dizzy, but attempting to remain vigilant. Nothing bad had happened to her so far - beyond getting sucked into there in the first place. But you could not be too careful.

“Have you got anything there to write with, Hermione?” Seamus was asking. “Your translations stop with only a phrase left. I’m going to give you the runes verbally and hope you can translate them back. Maybe that’s the key…”

Hermione scanned the area. The altar room was filled with many things, but none of them were writing instruments. Even if she had felt inclined to sharpen down one of the feathers on the altartop - and she didn’t, lest it trigger an unfavorable event - she had nothing to use as ink and nothing to write on…

Her memory flicked momentarily back to fifth year when Dolores Umbridge had forced Harry to use a blood quill during his detentions with her. She was just thinking that something like that would be handy to have now, when she paused, horrified at her own train of thought. 

_ It’s stress _ , she tried to reason.  _ You’re just stressed. It’s put off your perspective. _

But the idea had shaken her, no matter how she tried to justify it. She had been trapped for only a handful of hours - if they could not get her out now and had to wait until the following night’s moon to attempt again, what sort of state would she be in by then?

_ Focus _ .

She could not simply conjure a quill and ink from nothing, she knew… and while there was the  _ scrivenus  _ charm that would allow her to write letters in the air, it faded relatively quickly. If she were going to be doing runic translations, she would need far longer than they would last, especially if she would then have to attempt reading Irish back to Seamus.

It would have to be transfiguration.

Hermione was loath to transfigure her granola bar into parchment; it was the only food she had in there. Unluckily, she had worn no jewelry that day - which left only her hair tie, and articles of her clothing. She did not want to sacrifice her sweatshirt, as the air was chilly when she was not moving about.

_ I might not need my shoes _ , she conceded dubiously.

She shucked them off, then took ahold of her wand to begin the process. It took less than a minute, but she felt drained afterward. Idly, she wondered if there were not magic-dampening spells on this place, after all…

“I’m ready,” she told Seamus through her field mouse by proxy. “I transfigured my shoes into a pen and parchment. Please go slowly - I haven’t got a lot of energy left to keep sending patronuses.”

So began the painstaking process of Seamus sending patronus after patronus to relay the runes inscripted in the aboveground granite dolmen she had spent the last five days studying. Only occasionally did she have to ask him to go back to a certain character and try to describe it to her.

Once they had done and Hermione had a short slew of runes to translate, she sent a final patronus back, “I think I have everything I need. I can’t thank you enough, Seamus.”

His response made the corner of her mouth tilt up into something resembling a smile. “It’s nothing, love. You’d have done the same for me. I just hope it means something useful.”

This was followed shortly up by a message from Oona, “Weasley and I have had no luck trying to get that gate to open. It looks like you can only get in once - unless you’re a Black family member. The Weasleys don’t appear to be closely related enough, so your potential rescuers are limited.”

Hermione’s heart began to pound, and she tried not to think of  _ him _ .

_ No _ , she internally chided. But it was harder now to listen to the voice of reason.

The wolfhound brusquely continued, “We’ve found exactly three people that can help, according to the family tree: Neville Longbottom, Narcissa Black Malfoy, or Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione’s heart skidded to a halt, sputtering and skipping before she gasped at the name -  _ his  _ name - being said aloud. She sent back a hasty patronus, “Please,  _ please  _ try to get Neville.”

Bill’s peregrine patiently answered, “Though I don’t doubt he’d do it, he’s away in Brazil, studying herbology on an exchange with that professor from Castelbruxo. They value their privacy there, so he’s virtually unreachable from here, even by magical means. We’ve sent a missive, but it could be days before anyone can get ahold of him.”

“Andromeda then,” she pleaded, feeling her energy fading fast. “Why couldn’t it be her?”

“We thought of her, too,” Bill admitted, “but when you’re magically disowned,  _ all  _ connections are cut, even when it comes to magic recognizing blood. I’m sorry, Hermione. No one much cares for dealing with the Malfoys, I know… but we’ve already sent them both a request for help. If it gets you out of there, it’s worth it.”

Energy now spent, she slumped back against the dirt wall; she could only stare straight forward again, unseeing, and her mouth dry. Bill’s concern for her comfort might have been endearing under other circumstances. But, if there was one thing… one task she was not equal to… it was seeing Draco Malfoy again, in the flesh.

Despair began to set into her heart, seizing her brain and invading the deep places of her mind where she had stored away the things she did not care to think about. The past -  _ the wretched past _ \- so long buried and shunned, reared its ugly head...

At the age of nineteen, a fresh graduate in a burgeoning, new wizarding Britain, Hermione Granger’s eyes had shone with determination and opportunity. She had been ready to take on the world, and decided to start with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. After rattling the proverbial bars with her impassioned advocations for the rights of house elves, she achieved a quick victory in the form of abolishment.

But there were other under-privileged creatures to represent, and she proudly picked up the mantle for one magical creature to the next, starting with werewolves, and then giants. It seemed as if nothing could stand in her way; she was invincible.

After the centaurs, however, all hell broke loose.

With so many new regulations changing their established way of life, coupled with a new desire for land, the centaurs had declared war on the giants... and a massacre had ensued. The brutality of the giants against the centaurs’ thirst for blood and their booming population, had quickly gotten far beyond the control of wizardkind. Hermione could only watch in horror, unable to do a thing until the fiery conflict had burnt itself out.

In the end, the centaurs had been pushed back to their appropriated lands - but the new giant population of the isles had been reduced from eighty-eight... to five.

_ Five _ . The number haunted Hermione nearly as much as the gruesome battlefield she’d had to help clean up. And it was all  _ her _ fault.

If only… if only… if only...

She had resigned her position, and no one at the Ministry had been sad to see the back of her. A deep depression had set in shortly thereafter, and while the Weasleys had tried to help, they had been largely unsuccessful. Through her own actions, she had reduced herself into something like obscurity, while wallowing in a cesspool of self-loathing. Yes, she had always craved a vocation full of meaning… but not one that ended in carnage. Hermione was sure that because of Voldemort, she’d had enough of bloodshed to last a lifetime.

Now, she had earned herself a place in the history of wizarding Britain - not just as one of they that had helped Harry vanquish Voldemort - but as the witch that had brought on the near-extinction of giants in western Europe.

It was not until three years ago, when Bill had scooped her up for his and Oona’s team, that she began to slowly peek out from under her proverbial rock. She had been a husk of her former self, purposely sabotaging her health; she was not eating properly, or taking care of herself. But at least with them, she was being useful in some quiet way. Bill, and eventually Oona, had looked after her, as if she were some kind of child.

Until a year ago...

_ Fourteen months,  _ she mentally corrected herself. She thought back to what the current date was, and mentally recited,  _ fourteen months, one week, and three days. _

Because the thing was, the reclamation of Hermione Granger, was in large part due to a chance encounter with Draco Malfoy… and even more importantly than that, it hinged on never seeing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter got away from me a little bit. Thanks is due to both Witches_Britches and sarena for their meticulous alpha work, and for allowing me to ramble at them about this story. Ladies, your friendship is a treasure. I also have the lovely and talented LaBelladoneX to credit for her Irish translations.
> 
> So, what do you think so far? Let me know!


	3. Courante

_Fourteen months, one week, and four days prior..._

The stadium was full, teeming with highly energetic life. Surrounding Hermione were the surges of waving arms and bodies as she watched the red robes of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team fly by on the pitch. This was the semi-finals, and if Viktor won this one for his team, Bulgaria would officially be in the final match, taking on Brazil for a chance at the World Cup.

All around her, the chatter of speculation was unintelligible in a language she only spoke a scant handful of words in. Still, despite being alone and in a foreign country, a solitary lifestyle had become her modus operandi. It barely occurred to her that it could have been any different.

Viktor had invited her to Bulgaria for the match, months ago. Yet despite having had plenty of time to prepare for this day, she had nearly talked herself out of coming; being social was not something she listed amongst her accomplishments. Since the horrors of the Ministry debacle, Hermione had not left her flat in Cornwall in quite some time for something other than work. In fact, all she seemed to live for these days was her job as a curse-breaker. The rest of the time, she was a recluse.

Somehow, over the past couple years since her disgrace, she had become accustomed to spending time only with Bill and Oona. When she went home, it was to solitude; Crookshanks had passed away over a year ago now, and she had not had the heart to obtain a new companion. Books, which had been her constant comrades since she had learned to read as a child, were her only confidantes now...

But no one was likely to recognize her in Bulgaria, and that was a balm.

Breathing deeply, the summer air was humid, even as she took it into her lungs. The tangy smell of sweat was an undercurrent throughout the stadium, though it was mostly covered up by the delicious smell of roasted peanuts, cinnamon-covered-somethings, and other snacks being handed out for a few knuts during the match. Great, sizzling sausages were being distributed on sticks and nearby, even over the din of cheering voices and goading shouts, she could hear the crackling of Fizzing Wizbees.

It was almost a bit _too much_.

The July heat was doing things to her hair. In fact, she was certain that the only reason it was not becoming a massive bush, was because she had treated it liberally with Sleekeazy’s hair potion before showing up. She had on her best jeans, the ones that hugged her hips and curves, and a cute new blouse that showed just enough cleavage to be tantalizing without being crass.

Though she had packed a sundress, and it had been certainly hot enough to justify wearing it, once she had put the garment on in her hotel room, she felt self-conscious, like the cut of it and the floral print drew too much attention to her. She had shed it immediately, deciding instead on a safer option, and casting a cooling charm to ensure her comfort.

For a moment, she looked away from the pitch and all its green grass rippling from the wind of the players whooshing by on their broomsticks. For a moment, life seemed almost normal. As if Hermione Granger, disgraced ex-rising star of the Ministry of Magic, was normal.

Which simply was not true.

Initially, she had considered the idea of casting a Disillusionment charm on herself to attend, or at least altering her appearance so as not to be recognized. Soon enough, she dismissed both ideas as too paranoid - after all, she was unlikely to run into anyone she knew in Bulgaria - especially as the match was only against France. England was currently playing Brazil, so any Brits with an ounce of national pride would be attending the other semi-final match. There was also the risk that any concealment spells she might have cast on herself would set off the security surrounding the match... having the opposite effect of what she wanted, and drawing more attention to herself than she wished.

A roar erupted from the surrounding crowd. Squinting upward at the large screen across the stadium from her, Hermione discovered it was because Viktor had caught the Snitch. She might have missed it - but Bulgaria had won, advancing them to the World Cup finals. If she had remembered how to smile, she would have; surely, this meant Viktor would be celebrated, as he deserved.

Watching her friend as he circled the pitch in victory, Hermione reflected briefly on the unusually loyal correspondence via owl post the two of them had dedicated themselves to over the years. As they had grown older, they had grown closer, but the idea that Viktor might be romantically interested in her, was eventually squashed without any kind of dramatic falling-out. He had married an opera singer from Turkey he met at an after party of an away game, and they had been very happy together for a couple of years now. Not much changed between Hermione and Viktor afterward, except perhaps a different sort of understanding that could only have been achieved between true friends.

When he had found out about her failings with the giants and centaurs - that she had caused a _creature war_ \- he tried to comfort her conscience. But she still thought she could detect a certain amount of relief that they had not ever become more than friends. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

After the match, Hermione waited for the stands to clear somewhat before heading down to the area of the stadium reserved for the team’s rooms. Flashing the badge she had been given by Viktor to get past security, she met him outside the locker rooms. He was, indeed, extremely pleased with himself, laughing and celebrating with his teammates. The atmosphere was very high-energy, but once he had spotted her, he still managed to break away from the rest of his team to greet her.

He quickly launched into an explanation of the after party he and his teammates were about to head to.

“A party?” she queried, surprised. “Don’t you need to be worried about the finals coming up?”

“It is not for another week!” he explained, waving this away as if it were nothing. Viktor was just as she remembered: tall, broad-shouldered, and somewhat duck-footed on solid ground. His heavy eyebrows and large nose only added to his awkward appearance. Yet still, it was the face of one of her only friends. Breathlessly, he stated, “Ve haff worked tirelessly for our win today. Brazil vill not stand a chance against us.”

Frowning, she faltered, “Is it wise to be so… cocky?”

“Do not try to take avay the cause for celebration, Herm-own-ninny. Our team has trained hard, and after a day of rest tomorrow, ve vill continue to do so.”

“Fair enough.”

A glance over at the rest of the Bulgarian National Team gave her pause. They were saying some things in Bulgarian she did not understand, and looking at her with interest. One of the men winked at her, and she was suddenly very aware that they had an audience.

Worried, she turned back to her friend, “I hope your team doesn’t think that I’m an accessory in cheating on your wife…”

Glancing over at them, he listened a moment, then chased the idea way with a booming laugh. “They do not think so. They are vondering if you are single.”

She blushed.

“Come to the party vith us,” he invited. “I haff not seen you in some time… and you sound as if you do not go out much.” She could not deny that observation of herself, but her frayed nerves were stuttering with the idea of further socializing. But he had already moved on from the invitation, into the assumption that she _would_ attend. “Celebrate vith us. Ve vill catch up, and you can meet Ceyda. You vill love her…”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she protested. Even the thought of being introduced to Viktor’s wife was stressful, let alone a whole party’s worth of additional people. “What if someone recognized me there?”

He placed a friendly hand on her shoulder, “The chances of that are slim, I think. All those from _your_ country vill surely haff been supporting France at today’s match, and vill now be sulking!”

His high-vibrating frequency of optimism and excitement was catching. She felt a pull at the muscles around her lips, as if there could have been a smile forming, but she could not manage to bring it into existence. Despite the flutterings of anxiety in her chest, she supposed she _had_ traveled internationally to see him, so she acquiesced, “Alright. I’ll come. But you had better not desert me!” Trying to channel some courage, she placed her hands on her hips as if she were really more confident than she was. “I’m not likely to interpret anyone’s gestures, let alone the language.”

“I haff taught you some Bulgarian,” he pointed out, grinning.

“Not enough to get by,” she insisted. “You know I can’t get past ‘hello, how are you’ and ‘fuck off’...”

He laughed. “Not to mention your accent!”

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Not to fear, I vill keep you by my side. Ceyda vill, as vell.”

Without further ado, he pulled her by the hand toward the rest of his team. Putting on her best brave face, she attempted to make herself agreeable as she was introduced to them all - and eventually, Ceyda Krum.

Viktor’s wife was ethereally beautiful, with dark eyes and a white, winning smile. She broke away from where she had been milling about with some of the team, and took both of Hermione’s hands in her perfectly manicured ones. Feeling somehow smaller in the presence of this intimidatingly gorgeous woman, it was suddenly very apparent to Hermione why no one had mistaken her for Viktor’s mistress, if this was his wife.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time now,” she said, and it seemed to be the truth. For a moment, her eyes searched Hermione’s face, as if she were attempting to detect a hidden threat there. She must have found none, because her smile broadened. “My husband writes to you often. I admit, I’ve been curious.”

“Viktor mentions you frequently in every letter.”

“I am sure we will be good friends, Hermione.”

 _Doubtful_ , she privately thought, but only pressed her lips together in what counted as a smile for her these days. _But at least she speaks English._

“Come. Let me introduce you to some of the others.” A moment later, she was being tugged away from Viktor’s side toward a group of other women.

 _I can duck out early_ , she inwardly thought, already feeling a jittery malaise settling into her stomach. Viktor’s teammates seemed nice enough, and their husbands, wives, and friends appeared willing to be affable. But it was already exhausting to find herself being sized up, and to have to make eye contact with so many. _I am only here to support my friend... and in going, even for an hour, I will have done that._

She would do her best. For a little while, anyway.

.

Truly, Hermione had been utterly unprepared for the opulent debauchery that was an after party for a Quidditch match. Not to mention, sorely mistaken when she’d assumed she would be able to leave after only an hour.

Ceyda had apparently decided to adopt Hermione, in a sense, choosing to keep her close on her arm. This was not an easy task, considering that the crowd here was far less organized than the stands at the match had been. It took place at a mansion in Polvdiv with classical architecture on the outside, but with a modern interior. Everywhere were witches and wizards drinking, smoking, laughing, dancing to music that thrummed through the rooms like a central heartbeat.

“Ilieva has done wonders with this place,” Ceyda shouted as she looked around approvingly. “Though I wish she would have limited the guest list a bit more. Even with cooling charms, it’s so warm!”

Hermione had nothing to say to this - nor was she certain she would have been heard over the music, anyway - so she kept silent, eyes darting everywhere at once. She had never felt so much like a foreigner until this moment, accompanied by people she barely knew, and surrounded by a throng of witches and wizards all chattering away in a language she barely understood. Even the music was not something she was accustomed to: very loud techno, with a few lyrics interspersed that she also did not understand.

A moment later, their host approached. A Chaser on the victorious Bulgarian team, Ilieva was a burly woman with strong features, but with a warm smile of the sort that was only a distant memory for Hermione. Levitating a few glasses full of a light amber liquid, the witch continued to beam as she handed a glass each over to Ceyda, Hermione, and Viktor, while keeping one for herself.

“It’s _uispravka_!” Viktor explained at Hermione’s questioning look. He had to shout it over the din.

Her three companions toasted in Bulgarian, clinking their glasses enthusiastically, and knocking back their first sips of the alcohol. Speculatively, Hermione eyed the glass a second before tasting it. The flavor was a blend of spices, honey, and smoke.

“This is delicious,” she remarked, taking a second sip. No one heard her over all the noise.

That had only been the beginning. She had craved another glass, so she was given one. At the time, it had been innocuous enough, but very quickly, they had been corralled by some of the other members of the team, their spouses, and some admirers. Hermione soon found herself sitting on a low ottoman in a circle with a large group of others, none of whom were speaking English.

Leaning over toward Viktor, she murmured, “What are we doing?”

“It is an inhibitions game,” he explained, as Ilieva brought out a device to place in the center.

“It almost looks like we’re getting ready to play spin the bottle.”

“Like vat?”

“It’s a Muggle game. Nevermind. How do we play?”

But he barely needed to explain anything, because the rules were pretty apparent after the first couple of turns. Each player was meant to toss a galleon into their circle, where it would land somewhere on a board. The device in the middle, which resembled an abacus with only a few counters, was magicked to come up with a randomized combination that would denote what that player was to do, based on where the galleon had landed.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Hermione murmured, squirming in her seat.

It had taken a fair bit of convincing, but eventually Ceyda had sat beside her on the low ottoman, and persuaded her to do it… which was how, after three hours of being there, Hermione had consistently been disallowed the prospect of departure. She had instead found herself a constant participant in the abacus-like game of chance, and it was absolutely certain that she was not winning it.

Already, her vision was swimming with all of the alcohol she had imbibed over the past four hours - and yet, it was oddly freeing.

“Toss your galleon!” Alexei encouraged from across the circle. He was one of the few members of the Bulgarian National Team that spoke English, and had quite taken a shine to her. Hermione thought she remembered he was one of the reserve Chasers. He had thusfar avoided having to speak her name aloud, which even in her altered state of mind, had to make her wonder if he even knew it.

She found she did not care.

Tossing one of the dwindling pile of coins from her lap into the center of the circle, her blurred vision slowly focused in on the fact that it had landed on a square within the center mat that meant the fourth row on the abacus would become a count of three. This changed the entire code of the device, and was deciphered by their host.

A highly inebriated Ilieva shouted a word in Bulgarian, and a roar went up from within their group, only briefly heard over the continued thumping of the music.

“What does it mean?” she asked Viktor to her left.

“It means you haff to smoke from the narghile,” he explained. With a concerned look at her, he assured her, “No one vill force you to do it. I vill be sure of it.”

But the truth was, Hermione had never felt quite this uninhibited in her entire life. She had always been so tightly wound, so straight-laced, that even when she relaxed, there had always been something nagging at the back of her mind. It had been that way even when she was a child. Being close with Harry during her Hogwarts years had only exacerbated it, given all the trouble he consistently found himself in. Following the Ministry debacle with the giants, there had only ever been a heavy weight pressing on her brain, like a pressure she could never rid herself of...

Now though, this was different. Between the combined effects of her continuous drinking of the _uispravka_ , coupled with some other alcohol she had done two shots of, and then a small bit of papery something she had been convinced to press onto the flat of her tongue and had instantly dissolved... she was feeling like she was simply a head floating in the air, and without any worldly cares. Her body did not belong to her. It was operating of its own accord… she was merely its caretaker.

Eyeing Viktor, she blurted, “I want to try it!”

Rather intoxicated himself, he smiled at her, but continued to look a little skeptical. “I cannot stop you, but it is strong.”

“Yes, are you sure you’re in the right frame of mind, Hermione?” Ceyda queried from her other side. She, too, had pressed one of the tiny papers onto her tongue, and though she was continuing to share Hermione’s ottoman, she was now also slumped against a pillar beside it, looking carefree as could be.

Hermione only repeated, “I want to try it.”

Ceyda smiled serenely. “If you’re floating now, it will make you _fly_.”

At some point, someone must have heard and understood Hermione, because the narghile was suddenly before her. It looked just like a hookah, except it was hooked up to a glass orb that was eerily glowing with a bluish light, and was filled with swirling smoke while sparkling as if it contained stars. Additionally, it was not resting on anything, simply floating in mid-air in front of her… like a small, contained galaxy.

She accepted the small hose, as Ceyda distantly instructed. Eyeing the device, Hermione contemplated that it must not be too different from hookah, which she had seen once or twice at London bars.

She put the end of the hose to her lips, and drew in a breath, closing her eyes.

It tasted like nothing she had ever tried before - though perhaps a bit like the way she always had thought frankincense _smelled_. Immediately, her tongue began to tingle and she had to fight the urge to cough. Eyes watering, she barely registered that a billowing, orange steam had begun emitting from her nostrils and the corners of her mouth.

As she exhaled a nebula of smoke, she seemed to leave her body for a moment. Hovering above it like a spirit looking down, she viewed herself sitting beside Ceyda on the ottoman, while Viktor drank deeply from the glass in his hand. Meanwhile, the circle of people playing the game were cheering her on; she nearly felt like giggling.

With a sigh of relief at how boneless she had become, Hermione leaned against what she assumed was Viktor’s side, until she returned to her body. When she opened her eyes however, she discovered that instead of sideways, she had leaned backward into a stranger’s hip. The effects of the narghile must have hit her faster than she had expected...

Even in her altered state, her politeness kicked in. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry…”

She stopped, staring at the man whose waist she had been resting against. It was as if the fuzziness of her brain cleared for a second - and it wasn’t a stranger at all.

“That’s alright, Granger.”

No. This could not be happening… What was _Draco Malfoy_ doing here? He was simply _not allowed_ to be here, seeing her in all of her disgrace - and in an altered mental state, on top of things!

Looking down at her with an amused expression, he stood out like a beacon in the night. When had he started to look so good? Those cheekbones, his _hair_ , his… gods, how had Malfoy come to be in the possession of such beautiful _eyes_? Oh, but they were the perfect shade of mercury, all darkened silver, flashing in the blue light of the narghile… there was not another soul in this entire building, Hermione was willing to bet, that was so well put-together as he was.

A faint trace of his customary smirk ghosted across his mouth. Gesturing to the hose that was still in her hand, he remarked, “If that was your first time with the narghile, you’ve probably taken too much.”

She sat up with a start. Viktor had taken note of her faux pas and, drunk or not, when he spotted Malfoy, he asked, “Do you know him, Herm-own-ninny?”

“We went to Hogwarts together,” she explained dizzily.

Malfoy gently placed his hands on Hermione’s shoulders to steady her; with a jolt, she realized that she had nearly fallen from the ottoman without registering it, and that her legs were now entangled with Ceyda’s. “She’s high as a kite. Are you keeping an eye on her?”

Hermione scowled at him.

Viktor nodded, “She is vith me.”

“You’re gonna need both eyes.” With a small chuckle, he turned back to Hermione, “I’ll see you around, Granger...”

She blinked after his disappearing form. He had not sneered at her, or belittled her… though he must have known. He _had_ to know about her ultimate failure - all of Britain did, and even beyond. Malfoy had never missed an opportunity to demean her before. Now, while she was ensconced in a veritable thicket of failure, why had he not torn her to shreds?

Hermione had to know.

Scrambling to her feet, she disentangled her legs from Ceyda’s as best she could, made all the more difficult for the fact that the witch had apparently fallen asleep against the pillar behind her. But Hermione could not be bothered with that; she opted to follow Malfoy.

“Vere are you going?” Viktor wanted to know. His voice was far-away, despite that he was right beside her.

“I just,” she breathed out, steadying herself as she tried to find her sea-legs. “I need to ask Malfoy something.”

He frowned, but Hermione could not be bothered by that just now either. “But, Herm-own-ninny...!”

Ignoring him, she pressed on. The problem was, now that she had become vertical again instead of sitting on the ottoman, her equilibrium was completely wrong. Likely, it had been a combination of everything she had taken, experimented with, and imbibed - but the world was _swimming_. The sides of her vision were muted, almost fuzzy, like she was viewing everything through a tunnel. What she could see, rippled like it was underwater. Colors had become more vivid than ever; textures were truly strange things to behold. One woman was wearing a faux-fur vest (and little else), and it was only a very small voice in the back of Hermione’s mind that reminded her not to reach out and touch it.

For a few moments, she forgot why she had left Viktor - until she remembered her encounter with Malfoy. Grinning from ear to ear, she resolved that she simply _needed_ to find him, though she could not have said why it was so important.

It took awhile for her to reconnect with him in the press of people celebrating, though she could not have said exactly how long. She was absolutely certain that at least two people had groped her backside, but whenever she looked over her shoulder, she could not find the perpetrator. _No matter_. It almost did not bother her. Finding Malfoy had become her momentary obsession.

Eventually, she saw him by the bar, a drink in his hand. Still grinning, she picked her way over and sat herself right down in the chair beside him, unmindful of the couple snogging only two seats over, which she nearly crashed right into in the process.

Breathlessly, she looked into his face and uttered, “Hi.”

Looking at her, eyebrows raised, he took a sip of his drink before asking, “How high are you right now, Granger?”

“It feels like my head-” giggling, she mimed the shape of an enormous circle around her cranium, “-is the size of a hot air balloon!”

“A what?”

Laughing, she nearly doubled over on herself, wiping the tears from her eyes. “A _hot air balloon_ , Malfoy!”

She thought he might look amused by her, but it was hard to tell when his face was swimming in and out of focus.

“You must be shit-faced. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to be.”

“Is it because you’re… you’re…” she burst into a brief fit of giggles.

He titled an eyebrow at her. “Is it because I’m what?”

“A _pureblood_?”

He sighed, setting down his drink onto the top of the bar. “Granger, I think you’re too cained to be here.”

“It’s a silly name, isn’t it?” she laughed, falling slightly forward, so that he had to catch her forearms with both his hands. “Drrr-aaaa-ccooooo Maaaallll-fooyyyy.”

“Yeah, you know what? You really should be in bed right now.”

“Ah, come on, _Drrraaaaccooooo_ ,” she insisted, drawing out his name again as she heaved herself back upright (or something like it) and shoved a handful of loose curls from her face. “I came _all this way_ to find you.”

“Oh, from across the room, you mean?” He took a sip of the drink in his hand, looking thoughtful. “Why bother?”

But she only laughed, so heartily that she slapped the top of her thigh. The world was spinning faster now, a whirl of light and sound - and the only thing remaining stationary was him. Sobering a little, she finally answered, “Because you’re keeping me tied to the ground.”

His face softened, but Hermione could not decipher what that meant.

“You’re the only thing keeping me-” she giggled, “-from just… floating away.”

Expression hardening again, he decided, “Right, _hot balloon_ , I’m going to get you out of here. Somewhere you can sleep this off. You’re not… you.”

“But you’re _you_ ,” she protested, latching onto his arm as he stood. Her eyes were wide as she looked right at his face, “And that’s really, _really_ important.”

“Where are you staying? I’ll take you there.”

“I have…” she gasped with realization, “no idea. Where are we now?”

“Your pupils are _huge_ , Granger, what else have you been into besides that narghile?”

But she could not rightly say. She could also not have said how it was she managed to find herself at the party one minute, and the next, at a quiet, peaceful hotel room. The walls were white, and the light was soft - very unlike the harsh colors and flashings from the party. Her ears rang with the sudden absence of noise.

“Right,” said Draco with determination, turning on only one of the lights with a flick of his wand. “In a few hours, everything should be out of your system. You can sleep it off here, and I’ve got a potion that should help you with whatever’s left in the morning.”

“Where are we?”

“The hotel room I hired in order to be near the match.”

“Draco?”

“Mm?” He turned back to her from where he had been turning down the sheets on the bed for her.

“Are _you_ going to be in that bed, too?”

He groaned, looking frustrated. “ _No_ , Granger… unfortunately, no, I am not.”

“Awuh, are you being a _gentleman_ , Drrraaaaco?” she smiled, tipping over into him.

He caught her in his arms and she giggled again, catching her balance, only to lean up and kiss him straight on the lips. Though it was really more of a peck than anything, he merely stood there, still and shocked.

Still in her clothing, she fell face-first onto the pillow.

.

The sun’s early rays were still a pale gold when Hermione awoke. Groaning, she sat up in bed. Her hand immediately flew to her temple, where a violent throbbing was already in full force.

“Good, you’re awake.”

“ _Hngh_ ,” she replied to the voice - so familiar, and yet she could not put her finger on it. Slowly, she turned her head, to find Malfoy sitting in the nearby armchair with a book open on his lap and wearing a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses.

Closing his book with a small _snap_ , he peered at her from over the rims of his lenses. “How do you feel?”

Her head felt very large… but more importantly, her mouth was so dry that she nearly ripped a layer of skin off her lips just prying them apart. Her molars hurt, like she had been grinding her teeth, or else clenching her jaw all night. “I feel… like… I’ve been hit by a train.”

Setting his book down on the side table and folding his glasses on top of it for the moment, he raised his wand and flicked it toward the drawer of the bedside table. With another swish, a small vial levitated out of it and floated over to Hermione. “You’ll want this to help bring your head back down to its normal size.”

Head pounding, she squinted at him, then down at the vial in her hands, which contained a liquid that was a dull, orange color. “How do you know?”

“It was your first time smoking some from a Bulgarian narghile, wasn’t it? Stuff’s _strong_. I brought this with me, just in case. Should only need two sips, I would think.”

Looking down at the bottle in her hand, then back up at him, she queried suspiciously, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He only chuckled, resting his elbow onto the arm of his chair and looking intently at her. “Drink.”

Slowly due to her shaking fingers, she uncorked the potion bottle and took a whiff. Nothing smelled immediately suspicious - but then, she was so hungover, she wondered if she would even have been able to tell. Deciding to chance it, she took two long sips, as instructed, then recorked the vial and set it down, still half-full, on the bedside table.

The effects were almost instantaneous.

With horror, the events of the previous evening came back in a flood of memory. Remembering the way she had followed him to the bar, then harassed him until he had felt the need to remove her from the party, and culminating in - horror of horrors - _kissing_ the poor man when his guard was down! Hermione blushed, hard.

“Merlin, Malfoy,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry. I ruined your night last night.”

“You did not.”

“I… I can’t believe I…”

Eyes glittering, he challenged, “You can’t believe you what?”

It exploded from her mouth before she could stop it: “I can’t believe I _kissed_ you!”

Quirking an eyebrow at her, his subtle mirth faded somewhat. “I didn’t mind.”

Her blush only deepened, and the corners of her mouth turned downward, back to where they had remained for well over a year now. Sitting up a little straighter, she took in the bed she lay in, then her own body laying in it. She was still clothed but for her shoes, and it occurred to her then, that she desperately needed the loo.

For just a moment, her gaze flickered up to the arm of his chair, then finally, to his face. “Excuse me.”

Rising from the bed, she grasped for her wand on the bedside table. He must have set it out for her the night before, because she could not remember placing it there herself. Making a beeline for the bathroom, the door clicked shut behind her, a guarantee that she had at least a few moments of solitude.

A glance in the mirror left her aghast at her own appearance. Had it not been bad enough that she had embarrassed herself in such a manner the previous night? Did she also have to wake up in front of Draco Malfoy - of all people - looking as if a family of blast-ended skrewts had taken up residence in her hair?

Taking in a deep breath, she clamped both hands firmly onto the edge of the porcelain sink, and looked into the mirror, where she gave herself a stern look. _You are going to clean yourself up, and then you are going to get out of here. This is exactly what you get for leaving your solitude._

She spent a few hasty moments relieving herself and attempting to put her hair and clothing back to rights. Discovering a standard-issue hotel toothbrush and paste, she tore open its paper packaging and quickly brushed her teeth as well. Some of her mascara from the night before had smeared under her eyes, which she did her best to scrub away. For a moment, she even considered Apparating out of the hotel room from that bathroom, and leaving her shoes behind as a loss. Anything was better than facing her former tormentor of her youth after such an embarrassing display the previous evening.

Still, in a sense, he _had_ saved her from herself… saved her from making an even bigger spectacle than she probably already had. She supposed to she owed him at least a ‘thank you’.

Shutting the door behind her, she re-appeared back in the bedroom she had woken up in. Malfoy had not moved, and was still sitting in the armchair beside the bed. His book was back on his lap. She wondered if he had slept in that chair.

Taking a glance around the room for what seemed like the first time, she realized that what felt off about it, was the amount of white. The walls were white, the bedsheets were white, and most of the furniture was cream-colored or beige. Then there was Draco himself, with his platinum-blond hair, wearing a white, button up shirt.

Hermione felt very gray amongst all that white.

“I just wanted to say,” she uttered softly, taking a deep breath, “thanks.”

“For what?”

Grinding her teeth, Hermione supposed she should have expected he was not going to let her leave it that way. “For stopping me from embarrassing myself any more than I suspect I already did.” She glanced at the bed and its mussed sheets before her gaze flickered down to where her flats were neatly waiting by Malfoy’s own shoes beside the armchair. Just another obstacle for her to overcome before she could leave. She sighed. “And for not, you know… taking advantage… even though, er… I doubt you’d want to…”

The corner of his mouth tilted upward. “How do you know I _didn’t_ take advantage of you?”

Rolling her eyes, she snorted, “Please… disgraced Muggleborn, remember?”

With fascination, she watched as he seemed to be at war with himself, like he could not decide what to say. Finally, mouth set into a determined line, he admitted, “I thought about it.”

Taking a step backward, Hermione frowned deeply. “Am I meant to take that as a compliment? Regardless, I find it hard to believe.”

“And why is that?”

She looked over at him; he had threaded his fingers together and had propped his elbows up on the book in his lap. Yet confident as his posture was, she could sense a subtle undercurrent of something _else_ in the slight twiddling of his thumbs, and in the way his eyes had not left her face.

“Because…” she began, unsure where she had meant the sentence to lead. “Because… it’s _me_. I’ve become everything you ever threatened I would, back in school. I’ve failed.”

“Failure is relative, Granger.” He dropped his hands to set his book aside again, then stood for the first time. “And you should know that despite your own perceptions of yourself, I am _still_ having a hard time not taking advantage of you, even as we speak.”

_...What?_

With a deep frown, she took another step backward, and spat, “That’s not _funny_ , Malfoy.”

“I hadn’t intended it to be.”

“So… what? You’ve got it in your head that now that the ugly Mudblood has thoroughly proven why she doesn’t belong in the Wizarding World, you’d _love_ to just degrade her further by reminding her exactly where she belongs?”

Harsh as they were, the words had a bitter tang that left a film on her tongue, the taste of an acidic medicine she could not banish. The act of laying her insecurities down in front of Malfoy also felt strange and uncomfortably disarming, as if she were carving holes in her chest for him to peer through.

He was standing very still now, eyes still fixed on her. Then, slowly, he took a step toward her and rasped out, “No.”

She speared him with her fiercest glare.

But he only shook his head. “No, Granger, I do _not_ think any less of you for being Muggleborn, nor do I think you are ugly… and I disagree with the rest of your statement as well. You have, time and again, proven why you belong in our world.”

She was startled to find she was crying now, hastily swiping at her eyes to try removing evidence of even this small disgrace. Feeling his eyes on her, she turned from him where she stood, both wanting his comfort while simultaneously being repelled by it. After all, she barely knew him…

“When you approached me last night, I couldn’t believe my luck,” he admitted.

Glancing back over at him, she tried to find the truth in his eyes. “Why?”

Slowly, as if he were approaching a skittish creature that could dash away at any moment, Draco crossed the room toward her and stopped within her personal space. “You have no idea, do you, Granger? You have _no idea_ how badly I’ve always wanted you...”

It was difficult to say why Hermione chose to do what she did next. It was possible that it was because it had been so long since anyone other than her colleagues had connected with her on such a level. It could also have been because she truly craved him, as evidenced by her following and then kissing him while uninhibited the night before. Either way, when she kissed Malfoy now, it was shy and unsure. How long, exactly, _had_ he wanted her? He had said it had been always, but her logical brain seriously doubted that. Regardless, he kissed her back with an urgency that could not be doubted.

It was both bliss and utterly terrifying to touch and be touched. His hands were warm as they landed on her shoulders to maneuver her to face him; his taste banished the flavor of bitterness that had built up over the past year and a half.

When they parted, she sighed in contentment. _This_ . This was what she had been missing. It was _him_.

Like a drug, she wanted more of him.

Feeling suddenly starved for more of Draco’s touch, she pounced him. Perhaps she was more crazed than she had thought, because Draco actually exclaimed with surprise, “Whoa!” before her lips crashed onto his.

Shame crept into her heart; what was she thinking, jumping him like that? When she barely knew him? She tried to pull away, but was stopped by his hands wrapping around her waist and tightening to hold her in place.

He was gazing at her, searching her. Like he was trying to find her reasoning. “You seem to be warring with yourself. What is it you want?”

She brought her hand to rest on his and slid it downward until it came to rest on her bum. “I want to forget.”

When they crashed together next, it was like two ships colliding on water - and Hermione could already feel the gaping hole that this interaction was going to leave as a result. But just now, she did not care. She was no stranger to nursing her own wounds in solitude. This would be no different. _This_ \- sleeping with Malfoy on a whim - was exactly the sort of thing that Hermione Granger would not ever do… and being completely out of character for her, she could almost pretend that it was because _she was not Hermione Granger at all_. Perhaps… perhaps…

Head spinning with it all, she found a willing partner in Draco. He was all too eager to push her up against the wall of the hotel room, yanking one of her legs up to wrap around his waist. He kissed down her neck with abandon, taking everything she gave him. With a gasp, her head fell backward against the wall - _thunk_ \- and she was unwrapping her arms from around his neck to undo the buttons down the front of her creased and wrinkled blouse.

The moment she was free of the garment, she was fighting with the straps of her brassiere… and once her breasts had been freed, his mouth was on her. Closing her eyes to savor the experience, she simply enjoyed the feeling of him worshipping her skin, which felt hot under his breath.

“Too much?” he breathed out, even as he bit down on her nipple.

“More,” she answered, wanting whatever she could take from him.

She found herself deposited onto the bed a moment later, and he was kicking out of his trousers and underwear while she yanked his shirt over his head. Once he was bare to her, he took his cock in his hand and began pumping it a few times. Hermione glanced down to find that he was already quite hard, the tip of it weeping in his hand.

In a perfect scenario, she supposed they would have taken their time… undressing slowly and gradually learning one another’s bodies. But a kind of frenzy had taken ahold - not just of her, but seemingly of him as well. She wanted him. Now.

He seemed only too willing to cooperate, intent as he was to get her naked as well. Working at the button of her jeans, and shucking both them and her knickers at once, she discarded them on the floor. It had been an achingly long time since someone had desired her like this; there was no room in her mind for thought on what either of their motives might be.

The moment they were both unencumbered by clothing, he jumped her, kissing her without abandon and fisting his hands into her curls. His fingers stroked at her entrance, as if asking permission. With each touch, she desired him more.

“Please,” she practically begged between liplocks. “Please…”

Flipping her over so that she tumbled onto her stomach with a surprised squeak, he tugged her hips upward. She barely had time to position herself onto her hands and knees.

He took her from behind. By this time, she was so wet that it took only this single, fluid motion to join them. With a long groan, he leaned forward over her back to drop a kiss to the back of her neck, murmuring into her ear, “You’re so hot and tight, Granger.”

Ah, so he was a dirty talker. Hermione supposed that was in character for him, though she had not exactly expected it. She tried to come up with some kind of a response, but the only thing that she could focus on in that moment was how her slick cunt was gripping him. Somehow, with his solid length inside her and fulfilling a desperate need to feel full and stretched, it was also accompanied by a strange sense of relief.

All she could say in answer was a panting, “Fuck me, Malfoy.”

He set a punishing pace, thrusting into her with a grunt as she clutched at the sheets.

“You feel fucking amazing,” he growled, slamming into her so hard that his bollocks slapped across her clitoris. A shockwave rippled through her, and she reached up to play with the sensitive spot.

Her first orgasm hit her in waves only a couple of minutes later, her abdomen contracting sharply as it released the intense pressure that had steadily been building. She held onto the headboard for dear life as she keened, and he slowed to allow it to drag out.

As she shuddered with the aftershocks of climax, he had all but stilled inside of her, despite still being hard. Once she had calmed and her hand had fallen away from where it gripped the headboard, he flipped her over, and their gazes locked.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, running a hand down the side of her face. His eyes flickered only momentarily away to rove over her naked body. “You’re gorgeous, Granger.”

She sucked in a breath, and had to look away. He stopped her with his hand, and she found herself transfixed by a pair of grey-blue eyes that seemed to see directly into her soul as if looking through a mere window.

“You’ve been hiding. What happened to the lioness I knew at Hogwarts?”

Swallowing heavily, her voice was somewhat husky when she answered, “You know what happened. Everyone does.”

Leaning forward, he kissed her with a deliberate slowness that had her releasing a deep breath from her nose; simultaneously, he slid back inside her. Head falling back against the pillow, her lashes fluttered as he began to trail open-mouthed kisses down her neck and onto her chest, all while slowly pumping into her. It was such a difference from the wild coupling they had just participated in that it almost seemed like entirely different lovemaking.

“I had wanted to take my time with this,” he murmured, capturing her nipple in his teeth and swirling his tongue around the raised peak.

A strangled gasp escaped her lips, and with another slow, deep thrust, he was kissing her mouth again. He tasted so good, and the way his tongue danced with hers was divine.

It took that long for his words to click. “What do you mean, you-” he interrupted her with a kiss and another thrust, “-wanted to take your time? How long-” she gasped here as he settled deeply into her, then pushed forward even more, bottoming out, “-have you wanted…?”

“I’ve wanted you since we were both sixteen.”

She frowned, even as her breath began coming in shallow pants. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“There are a lot of things that don’t make sense in this world, Granger,” he answered, lifting one of her legs up so that her ankle rested on his shoulder and speeding up slightly.

“But, I-,” she faltered. Her hands left the sheets to grip at his hips; it seemed to her that he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the bed. “After everything that-”

“Talk after,” he insisted, hooking his hand under her other knee to lift that ankle onto his shoulder as well.

“Okay,” she agreed in little more than a pant.

The feeling of him driving into her was already sending her mind into a tailspin. He collapsed forward, bracketing her in, her legs nearly straight up in the air. The angle was fantastic; he seemed to hit her in just the right spots. It was not long until her second orgasm wracked her body.

The sight of her coming undone seemed to drive Draco mad, because he worked himself up into a torturous pace as her body clenched around him and she screamed her release. He must have found his peak as well, because a moment later, she was being flooded with warmth and his arms were moving to surround her waist, her ankles falling from his shoulders back onto the mattress with a _thunk_.

Sweet relief. At last.

Some time later, Hermione lay on her stomach, with her head resting on Draco’s naked chest. She could feel him playing with one of her curls, as it brushed against the skin of her back with his slight movement. It was nice, being able to bask in his warmth… but she could also feel the cold desire for the comfort of her self-imposed solitude creeping back as well. In all the books she had ever read, none had offered instructions on what was a polite amount of time to stay after being shagged senseless by your former schoolyard nemesis.

He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “I can hear you thinking.”

Craning her neck around to face him, she offered him a little halfhearted-grin, but no explanation. She wasn’t sure she even had one.

“The first real smile I get from you, and it’s a sad one,” he quipped, touching her chin to tilt her head up at him. “It wasn’t that bad, surely?”

Pausing frozen, Hermione’s world felt utterly still for a moment. _Had_ she been smiling? She had not even noticed… Slowly, she shook her head. “It… no. It wasn’t bad at all.”

“Well?”

This seemed as good an opening as any. “I should get going. I have work tomorrow. I’ll need to catch an international Portkey.”

“It’s still morning. You have hours yet before last call to England.” Her stomach chose that moment to give a loud growl. With a noise of agreement, he eyed her abdomen with something like amusement. “The room service here, unfortunately, is dreadful. However, there _is_ breakfast downstairs. Surely you can stay a bit longer?”

Latching onto the first excuse that came to mind, she answered, “I’ve slept in my clothes. I’m sure I’d look a fright… really… I’d rather just…”

He was already standing, the sheets falling away to expose his nudity once more. “Wait for me here. It’ll only take me a minute.”

Hermione watched from the bed as he selected some fresh underwear and trousers from his luggage and pulled them on before yanking a shirt over his head. She had nothing to say - or rather, she had several excuses to make, but he appeared unwilling to accept them.

Grinning down at her as he fastened the buttons of his sleeves and smoothed out the material, he placed one knee on the edge of the bed to lean over and kiss her again. “I’ll be right back. You don’t have to lift a finger… and once we’ve got some food in us, we talk.”

The expression on his face was very free and nearly boyish as he looked at her. Like she was something amazing.

Which she wasn’t.

Hermione’s stomach was churning.

A moment later, the door closed behind him and he was gone. The room was empty, devoid of his presence, but it still smelled like him - but now also, like sex. She had had _sex with Draco Malfoy_ , and it had been bloody incredible. And yet…

_And yet…_

Suddenly panicked, she scrambled for her clothes. Fingers fumbling with her jeans, it was an effort just to pull them up, and in her haste, she had utterly forgotten her knickers, until she felt the bulge of fabric from within her pant leg and had to yank them free. Stuffing them into her pocket, she did the same with her socks, pulling her shoes onto her bare feet.

She had to get away… she simply could not face this right now. Draco was being so attentive and… _kind_. It was too close to affection… and affection was not something she could risk. She had to protect herself. Other than the runic translations and arithmancy she did for work, it was all she was good at anymore. It was all she would allow herself to be.

As she was pulling on her blouse, buttoning up the front, her eyes fell onto the bed with its rumpled sheets, the pillows either askew or having fallen onto the floor. This was not what she wanted, to run away… but she needed to disappear, all the same. Even if it meant hurting Draco’s feelings. He would recover, she had no doubt. In less than a month’s time, perhaps he would be falling into bed with a different witch, whispering sweet affections, and finding his pleasure… just as the two of them had here, this morning.

_I’ve wanted you since we were both sixteen…_

There were whole volumes there. Whole volumes that she did not have the emotional capacity to dismantle.

She strode purposefully to the fireplace and searched for a container that might hold Floo powder, locating it in a metal box that sat to the right, on the floor.

With a last look at the sadly empty bed where they had made love, she tossed the green powder into the fireplace, and stepped away.

.

.

_Fourteen months, one week, and three days later…_

A bone-deep feeling of cold had seeped into Hermione’s entire being by now. For how long she had been sitting against the dirt wall of the ancient altar room, she no longer knew. She was too exhausted to cast a _tempus_ charm, even if she had been determined to find out.

She hadn’t seen Malfoy since that morning when she had run out on him without even so much as a note. Never found out if he had been telling the truth about loving her during a time when it made no sense whatsoever for him to do so. Never found out if he had considered her a mere conquest.

He had never - not once - reached out to her since that morning. There had never been any owls, notes, or even formal correspondence. In fact, that morning might never have happened at all, except that even to this day, she could still feel the whisper of his breath on her skin when a warm breeze teased her hair. Then there were mornings when she would wake, wishing to hear his breathing beside her in the bed… but of course he was not there.

 _She_ had not wanted to be herself that day, but Draco _had_ wanted Hermione Granger. Even after everything. It did not make any sense.

Sometimes, in the following months, she would catch herself smiling at nothing. Each time it surprised her less and less. Soon enough, Hermione started opening up to her colleagues - particularly to Bill, who had referred her to a mind healer she now saw twice a month. Recently, she had even met up with Harry and Ginny for dinner… something she had not done in years. It was difficult to explain why, but something had changed that day.

She had considered owling Malfoy. After all, reconnecting was surely better late than never? Then the announcement came: he was engaged to Astoria Greengrass. She had seen it proclaimed in the _Daily Prophet_ some six months ago.

Tucking her feet under her body to warm them now that they were only covered in socks, she turned her attention to the transfigured parchment and pen that she had covered in runes according to Seamus’s dictation. But exhausted and anxious as she was, she could not focus.

What would she say to Draco Malfoy when he showed up? To save her life, no less?

 _If_ he showed up, at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! It's been awhile since my last update, but now that I've finished The Eagle's Nest, my attention is back to being focused on this story. Thanks for your patience... and only two chapters to go now. I appreciate everyone who had left comments and encouragement.
> 
> I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the talents of both Witches_Britches and sarena, who acted as alphas for this chapter... and it was a doozy of an installment, which is all the better for their collective hard work. Thank you, ladies!


	4. Sarabande

It took nearly three-quarters of an hour for Seamus to painstakingly relay the runes scripted across the granite dolmen down to Hermione. He had probably sent over twenty of his fox patronuses down into the ancient altar room, where she scribbled away at her transfigured parchment and pen.

Meanwhile, she tried to remain as still as she could, her energy compromised from her ordeal thusfar. There was also a cold that had seeped into her core - only it seemed to go even deeper than that. It was as if the frigid air was assaulting the omphalos of her very being, forming fractals of ice which spread all along her magical center. The chill also pulsed outward from the places she had landed into the grisly antechamber earlier, reminding her of her injuries. On top of both these things, there was the sensation of being slowly drained, as if a dementor had crept into the room, unseen.

She tried to ignore it, and did her best with the tools she had.

Earlier, her aboveground translations had been interrupted with only two lines of runes left to decipher. Though this might not have seemed like a lot to the untrained, she had to analyze each character. She found herself grateful for her photographic memory; even without her runic guidebook, she was still able to translate the last two lines – though it still took her about two hours.

Every so often, Oona would check in on her. Not wishing to expend any more energy however, Hermione almost found this to be more of a hassle than it was reassuring, because she was expected to respond.

Finally, she sent her field mouse patronus scurrying up into the open world above to give Seamus warning that she was about to read the translations, in Irish, back to him. Almost as an afterthought, she reminded him that her energy was waning and that she was unsure how many more patronuses she would be able to muster.

When she read the translated words back to him, she was near certain she had butchered the dialect: “Tá fola ag teastáil mar thairiscint.”

Her message was followed up by a telling wait, which only confirmed her suspicions that he was going to need further clarification. Exhausted, she breathed in deeply, then slowly exhaled, as if willing herself to become ready for such a scenario. Some time later, Seamus predictably requested she spell it out for him, and slowly.

Looking apologetic and almost doleful, his fox patronus explained, “Sorry, Hermione… when English is your primary language, Irish pronounciations never make any feckin’ sense.”

Inwardly, she cursed her lack of preparedness. She worked in Ireland for her job with some frequency - why didn’t she know any basics of the native language? Frustrated with her own lack of control over the situation, she made a vow that if she ever made it out of this place, she would teach herself some Irish. A second mental assessment had her questioning why she had even bothered to try speaking the words in the first place, when she had known she might end up having to spell it.

Nevertheless, she turned her attention back to the transfigured parchment and raised her wand. As she tried to focus, her vision blurred somewhat and she had to squint to focus; her hand shook as she cast her next patronus to begin the painstaking process of spelling out her translations. When she finished, she allowed her head to fall back onto the wall and she closed her eyes. For a moment, she thought she had even fallen asleep, when she jerked suddenly forward.

The following wait was even longer, until finally, when the proxy Seamus appeared this time, the silvery fox translated, “It means ‘blood is required as an offering’.”

Hermione barely had time to register Seamus’s words when the Irish Wolfhound patronus that belonged to Oona trotted in. The message was relayed in the older woman’s no-nonsense lecturing voice, but Hermione thought she could detect a hint of fatigue. “Really old wizarding crypts and passage graves in Ireland were often sealed with blood magic rituals. Despite what the wording sounds like, I do not think it means that blood has to be spilled to gain entry, but rather, that a descendant of the Blacks needs to be the one to open this place. It is as we thought.”

The words offered Hermione little comfort. In the back of her mind, a small, nagging voice queried,  _ What if a false offering was made? _

No one could say – perhaps it would simply be nothing, which was why Bill had been unable to gain entry. But then, considering how violently Hermione herself had been sucked into the hillside - and on top of a pile of broken bones, too – she had a sneaking suspicion that this place, whatever it really was, was darker than they were giving it credit for. What if Oona was wrong?

Glancing around at her surroundings, she paused when she came to the altar-top. How had she not noticed before that the long table was just the right length for a human to lie on top of?

She tore her gaze away from the sight of it and her corresponding morbid thoughts. But she could not help the idea that continued to permeate, that it was likely a blood sacrifice  _ would _ be necessary to get inside… or worse, to get  _ out _ .

Before she could dwell too much on that thought, a third patronus – Bill’s peregrine falcon – dove into the chamber. “I’m back. I tried to get Narcissa Malfoy first, since she’s the closest living Black family member, but she’s away in France. In her stead, her son agreed to help. Pretty gracious of him, really… especially considering I broke through his house’s wards in the middle of the night while he was asleep.”

Still as she had already been from weariness, now Hermione utterly froze.

Softly, the peregrine finished, “Oona and I have already agreed that if this doesn’t work, we’re going to have to march straight into the Ministry first thing into the morning to secure an international Portkey. If that’s the case, I’ll be going to France tomorrow to find Narcissa, but for now, Draco’s here with us, working with Oona and Finnegan to get inside. With any luck, he’ll be joining you shortly.” The patronus paused, and in an even lower tone, added, “I know you and he had your differences back in Hogwarts, but Draco is probably your only chance at leaving this place until tomorrow night.”

The peregrine cocked its head at her, as if inciting her to think on that, before dissipating into nothing.

Dread percolated in the forefront of her mind. Hermione did not know what to do – but the idea that Draco Malfoy was actually  _ outside _ and trying to  _ get in _ filled her with apprehension. If her blood had been cold before, it was raging hot and terrified now.

She debated leaving the altar room to head back down the passage, but even in her panicked state, she recognized that she was too spent to cast any of the diagnostic spells she would need, in order to do so safely. Besides, where would she go? Was she only to delve deeper into this place to hide from him? Still… a part of her wondered if her sprouting another head would not actually be worse than seeing Draco again after the way things had played out the last time she had seen him. Especially  _ now _ …

_ Focus _ , her rational side chastised.  _ This is a rescue, nothing more than one human being saving another.  _ As for afterward - if he were lucky enough even to be successful - well, she would just have to be gracious and thank him. There was also another factor into this mess: Astoria Greengrass, soon to be the new Lady Malfoy.

“The man is engaged, Hermione,” she reminded herself. She had tried to muster up her bossiest voice, in order to scare herself into submission – but her words only came out small, and slightly hoarse from her dry throat.

Time seemed to slip by in great dollops, until she heard a great scraping from the passage above her, followed by Bill’s peregrine announcing, “Malfoy’s on his way in.”

The thudding of her heart was no longer anything more than the primordial rhythm of time passing; she felt as if she could hear each beat reverberate through her skull, where it ricocheted outward, sending vibrations tingling down her body. Shaking now, she tried to calm herself, but her faculties no longer seemed to be entirely under her own control.

Soon, the echo of footsteps could be heard growing closer. Having extinguished themselves some time ago, the torches in the passage outside burst into new life. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut to steel herself. When she opened them again, she saw the silhouette of a man moving in the shadows of the flames along the walls… drawing ever-nearer…

Then, he was there. He came to a stop in the center of the pewter doorframe that led into the altar room. Hermione looked up at him; Draco looked down at her. A silence enveloped them, as complete and elemental as darkness.

Suddenly hyper-aware of her disheveled appearance and bloodstained clothing, she folded into herself as best she could. Unfortunately, her change in position only made her shoelessness more obvious, and she wished she had not had to transfigure them into pen and parchment.

By contrast, Draco was looking as well put-together as ever, despite that Bill had said he’d had to drag him from bed. His hair was neatly combed, if not styled, and his eyes were sharp and alert as they focused in on her where she huddled against the wall. In one hand, she noticed he was clutching a small case; the only indication that he was at all ruffled by the situation was that perhaps he gripped it rather tighter in his fist than he needed to.

For some time Draco only stood in the entryway, until finally he said, “Quite the bunch you have up there, on the surface. Weasley trying to act the hero while that old witch fussed... and Finnegan looking daft as ever.”

Hermione nodded, feeling forlorn.

Coolly, he leaned against the doorframe as if they were not in such a dreary setting, and merely in any number of socially acceptable places to be having a conversation. “I told Weasley that considering it’s  _ you _ that’s been down here, I could be persuaded to try getting you out, if I could question you on what you’ve seen.”

_ Is this really happening? _ She was in no state to be questioned. Surely he could see that? Then again, Hermione was in no position to be choosy, or to anger him. He  _ had  _ come to rescue her, after all...

Unsticking her throat, she managed to rasp out, “Yes, there’s quite a lot down here, but I’d recommend you speak with a historian. I don’t have a trained eye.”

“Hang the history, that’s only what I told Weasley. I just wanted to get you alone. After all, it’s been awhile… well over  _ a year _ , in fact. We never got to discuss what happened all those months ago...”

“Sex, Malfoy,” she answered frankly. “Sex is what happened.”

“Forgive me,” he sneered. “I didn’t realize that one night stands were frequent for you.”

“They aren’t.”

“… _ I _ certainly don’t make a habit of them.”

“Nor do I,” she tried again.

But he interrupted with, “Then why leave?”

“What’s the point you’re trying to make here, Draco?” She saw him flinch slightly at her use of his given name. “Am I meant to be flattered? Or should I be apologizing?”

Now having wasted even more of her energy on the vigor of argument, she slumped back in exhaustion. He looked at her long and hard, though he had still not moved from the doorway. “What’s happened to you down here?”

“Nothing.” She shivered, glancing down at the floor and remembering where they were. With a great gust of determination despite her weariness, she heaved herself unsteadily to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

There was nothing she could do to prevent his noticing her squalid state – just as there had been no helping her panic earlier, just as the thought of seeing him. But yet, she had overcome that… she would see this through, too. Anything, just to get out of her prison.

Using the wall at first to keep herself upright, she tried to shake feeling back into her cold, debilitated limbs.  _ Perhaps I’ve been sitting longer than I thought... _

Once she was ready, she moved forward into the torchlight and looked up at him, only to see something immensely more terrifying registering on his face: understanding. Shifting his weight so that he was no longer leaning on the doorframe, he sized her up before finally striding into the room.

The moment he stepped away, the doorway out sealed behind him, leaving only a frame around an expanse of well-packed dirt wall.

“Shite,” Hermione cursed, slumping back down against the wall in despair.

Ignoring her outburst, he made his way over to her and set the case he was carrying down onto the ground. Flipping open a lock on either side of the handles, he lifted the lid and handed her a sealed flagon of something. Waving his wand over the top of it, the seal dissipated and he handed it over. “Here - that old witch sent me down here with water for you.”

_ Water! _ She took the flagon with shaking fingers and drank deeply from it. Once she had drained it, it refilled itself. Part of her hated him for withholding it even for a few minutes, and the other part of her was just grateful for some kind of relief.

“There are some potions in here, as well,” he explained, his voice strangely gentle. “They weren’t sure what you would need.”

Hermione peered over, recognizing Oona’s travelling medi-witch kit with half an apothecary stuffed into it. “I… don’t know. I just need to get out of here.” The sting of tears threatened her eyes but she shoved them away, determined not to also  _ cry  _ in front of him. “But that seems unlikely now the doorway’s sealed itself...”

Shaking his head, Draco lifted his finger to point to the far wall opposite them. “No – look.”

The outline of a new doorframe had shimmered into existence ahead of them, though it did not appear to have a visible opening. Hermione moaned in exhaustion, swaying where she sat – must she go through all of this  _ again _ ? - but Draco placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. Even in such dire circumstances, the warmth of his hands on her flashed her back to the last time he had touched her…

_ No.  _ She stopped herself, not allowing her thoughts to trend that way _. Not right now. _

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he hoisted her back to her feet. Still trying not to let her thoughts run away, she focused on finding her balance. Shifting much of her weight onto his side, Draco half-led, half-dragged her toward the apparition. At their approach, he squinted through the semi-darkness, then quickly got fed up with that and cast, “ _ Lumos _ .”

His wandlight burst into brilliance like a beacon; Hermione recoiled, squinted from the brightness of it in the dark. His spell seemed stronger than any she had been able to conjure since being flung into this place. Draco, too, appeared to find the spell was brighter, because he stepped back and blinked at it suspiciously. Shining the light onto the wall, they found that it appeared to be engraved in great detail to depict the phases of the moon.

Draco frowned. “But what does that mean?”

“Try an  _ Aparecium _ ,” she suggested. “It can reveal hidden messages or details.”

With a sidelong glance at her, he swiftly looked away and complied. After everything else that had gone wrong that evening, Hermione half-expected the spell to not work. However, a minute later, the engraved moons in the stonework were glowing brightly then immediately fading into nothing before the stone simply melted away. A yawning blackness now stood before them.

“Well, that’s something,” Draco muttered, looking eager to get away. He cast her an uncomfortable look before re-adjusting his grip to her waist; Hermione pretended not to notice that he was holding her rather more tightly than he needed to.

Shining his wandlight into the dark space before them, he started to take a step toward it when Hermione grabbed his arm with alarm. “Don’t!”

“Why not?”

“Because, you need to cast diagnostic spells first,” she insisted hurriedly, feeling this time, a wave of nausea along with her exhaustion. She swallowed the urge to dry heave and explained, “I can’t cast them down here, my magic is dampened. You’ll have to do it. We also should send a patronus… let the above-ground crew know where we’re going.”

“Surprisingly level-headed for a Gryffindor,” he japed. This took Hermione aback, as she had not been expecting any sort of humor from him. He followed it up with, “I’m afraid I never learned how to cast a patronus, however.”

Closing her eyes, Hermione disentangled herself from him to lean against the wall for support, unwilling to use him for this. She raised her wand and cast, “ _ Expecto Patronum _ ,” which only produced a silvery mist for a brief second before it dissolved entirely. She took a deep breath, ignoring a second wave of nausea as it rolled over her. Concentrating as best she could on Christmas dinner with her parents when she was a young girl, she cast again - this time with some success.

Her little field mouse did not look entirely corporeal, nearly effervescent around the edges. Nevertheless, she gave it a message to take above-ground: “We’re taking a new passage that opened up. The old one has sealed. Will cast diagnostic spells.”

She glanced over at Draco and found him watching her, his expression veiled. Unable and unwilling to deal with the myriad of emotions she was feeling then - let alone whatever  _ his _ might be - she began instructing him on which spells to cast in order to ensure their relative safety.

Though many of the spells he claimed to already be familiar with, he complied with casting all of them anyway. Just the fact that he was following her instructions made her incredibly nervous.

Soon, just as the path ahead had been given dubious clearance for passage, Bill’s peregrine patronus flapped into the cavern-like room. “Be careful. Don’t forget your diagnostics.”

With some effort, Hermione heaved herself away from the wall and turned her head toward the dark tunnel. Chancing a look up at Draco, she lifted her chin high and tried to exude confidence. She guessed it had not been a convincing attempt, since he looped her arm through his for support, as if she were some kind of elderly witch. Begrudgingly - because she really needed the support, after all - she acquiesced and they headed into the passage together.

If she had expected torches lining the tunnels to flare to life like the others had, she was wrong; there was no obvious light source here to offer them guidance. But ahead, she could spot a bluish-greenish light, it’s source unclear, emanating from… something. The murky light reflected down the passage oddly, almost as if it were shining from around a corner, and muted by the power of Draco’s  _ lumos _ .

The ground was cold beneath her feet, and as Hermione no longer had any shoes, the chilly dirt of the passage floor had caked onto the bottoms of her socks. Meanwhile, the tunnel was a sloping path, cut sharply inward like a spiral staircase, and though there were not any actual stairs, Hermione’s inner equilibrium told her she was absolutely going downward. As the two of them slowly made their way forward in silence, it also occurred to her that the tunnels must be held up - if not originally created - by magic, given that there were no cave-ins or inconsistencies in the walls or ceiling. She had to wonder what kind of spell could be sustained for so long. Her mind lingered on the suspect altar room with its human-sized sacrificial table, on the tarot cards she had spotted in the chest that looked suspiciously as if they had been stitched out of human leather... and on the skeletons in the first antechamber she had fallen into, completely stripped of any flesh. How had it not occurred to her earlier that there had not been any smell? No obvious decomposition to those gruesome welcomers?

Something was not adding up.

Draco’s voice snapped her from her macabre reverie. “When did your patronus change?”

His question nearly made her trip over her own feet. “How do you know it’s changed?”

“I might have seen your otter prancing around a few times, back at Hogwarts. You used to practice in that empty classroom on the fifth floor sometimes.”

She glanced over at him, straining her memory. “Alone. I always practiced alone… or at least, I  _ thought  _ I did...”

He only shrugged noncommittally.

“When did you become so interested?”

With an impatient huff, he stipulated, “I’ll answer your question once you’ve answered mine.”

Weakly, she admitted, “It was some time ago… after the Ministry debacle.”

Draco was quiet as he digested this information. Hermione wondered what was going through his mind. Finally, he said, “I didn’t realize that incident had affected you so much.”

“How could it not?” she snapped, her exhaustion making her irritable. “Decimating an entire population of the very creatures I was trying to protect… of course I was affected.”

He was silent, mulling this over.

“Your turn: how do you know I used to practice in that empty classroom?”

Peeking down at her, they accidentally made eye contact. Instead of breaking away, Draco appeared to consider her a minute, all while they continued on their way toward the mysterious greenish light at the end of the tunnel. The moment was broken when she stumbled, nearly falling forward despite their cautious pace. Clutching her arm tighter, he answered, “Do you remember what I told you… over a year ago? About how long I’ve had… er, well… about when I started caring for you?”

Secondhand embarrassment at his admission heated her cheeks.  _ How difficult had it been for him to admit that? _ she wondered, especially considering his engagement. With perfect clarity, she recalled, “When we were sixteen. I thought you were teasing.”

She felt his entire body tense as slowly, he shook his head. “I was perfectly serious, I assure you.”

Hermione did not have the mental or emotional capacity to dismantle that, just then. When she tried, it felt like fragments of her mind merely snapped and fluttered away in the wind, leaving her bereft of most of her major cognitive faculties. It hardly mattered, however - because presently, they turned the last of the spiraling corners and the source of the green-blue light ahead was revealed.

“Heavens to Zeus,” she gasped, coming to a halt.

Even Draco lowered his wand, his  _ lumos _ pointing uselessly at the ground as he stared.

“Cast the diagnostics,” she whispered, eyes still wide.

He did so, then took her arm again and jerked his head toward the spectacle as if to ask if she were ready. Nodding, she sucked in a deep breath, and the duo stepped into the room beyond.

Now revealed in the greenish light they had been approaching, the room here was lined with stone like the altar room above, instead of dirt like the passage leading there - but that was where the similarities ended. Truly, Hermione had never seen anything like it in her life.

The long, rectangular room was dominated in the center by the roots of the tree on the hilltop above coming down from the ceiling. Twisted by magic into a chandelier of sorts, the root-ends were tipped with candles hanging upside-down from them… except instead of burning fire, the flames were of water. These gave off an eerie light, which fluttered onto the stone walls and gave the impression that they were underwater. Underneath this spectacle was an enormous, standing amethyst geode, like a basin. As Hermione and Draco took another step inside, long fingers of water burst upward from this, dancing and writhing in the manner of flames like tiny, illuminated streams. Icy-cold light reflected onto the walls, wobbling with intangibility.

“This is surreal,” Hermione heard Draco mumble under his breath. A glance at him found him taking everything in with still-wide eyes. 

Lining the walls - or were they actually  _ part _ of the walls? - were long chest tombs of carved stone. Each featured a clear, glass top with what appeared to be effigies of the dead held within. “Tombs,” she murmured, “so this place  _ is _ a crypt. Bill was right.”

“What’s that?” queried Draco.

“Bill and Oona were bickering earlier,” she explained, “about what this place really was: temple or crypt.” With a shrug, she concluded, “Turns out, it’s both.”

It was only a slight movement, but she thought she felt Draco’s grip tighten where he still supported her on his arm.

Struggling out of his grasp, she learned toward the nearest one. On top of the stone vault, she found a handful of raw crystals, neatly arranged into a circle. A glance at some of the others found similar tokens in place along the glass tops. Some had small statues of animals, possibly familiars, while another was piled high with loose gemstones, and yet another had St. Brigid’s Crosses woven from rushes. In fact, each tomb featured some kind of token atop it, with some of the more common offerings being jewelry or vials of blood.

She took another step toward the closest one, intent on peering inside to get a better look at what the life-like effigies might be made of, but immediately recoiled in horror. “Agh!”

These weren’t effigies at all, but actual mummified remains.

Draco tugged her backward several paces at her outburst. “What’ve you seen? Did it move?”

A strangled “ha!” escaped her lips, but Hermione was far from amused. After everything that she had been through in the last several hours, the suggestion of zombies was not a welcome one. “N-no,” she stuttered, trying to level herself out. “I just thought they were effigies, at first. They’re not.”

“No,” he agreed. Then, after a pause, he tucked his arm back through hers, causing her to wonder who had really been supporting who this entire time. “Did you see that they’ve been buried with their wands?”

“How did you…? When did you see…?”

He tilted his head toward the nearest of the chest tombs. “Look at him. Hands folded over his chest, wand in hand.”

By unspoken agreement, the two of them moved forward together as a unit to peer back into the glass at the dead wizard contained within. The mummy was so lifelike, with his arrogant expression and his jet-black hair, he could almost have been alive in his capsule. Entranced, she shuffled toward the next of the tombs, this one with flowers carved into its stone sides. Again, they peered past the glass together, to discover the finely plucked eyebrows and hairline of a witch with fine, blonde hair.

_ But how are they able to stay so well-preserved? What magic can sustain a spell like this for so long? _ It did not make any sense based on her existing knowledge of modern - and ancient - magic.

Aloud, Hermione voiced, “Fascinating,” just as Draco murmured the exact same thing simultaneously. Their voices rang out together, the only sound in the underground crypt. She glanced sidelong at him, to find he had looked pointedly away, his cheeks noticeably pink, even in the watery green-blue light of the room.

_ He’s engaged _ , she again had to remind herself. Instead, Hermione forced herself to imagine the field day Oona was going to have if this place was ever cleared for research.

As if conjured by her thoughts, they were interrupted by her mentor’s patronus from above. Wisping around them, its body language alert, the wolfhound merely said, “Checking in.”

Draco turned to her now; it was as if their moment had never happened. “Can you send another patronus, do you think?”

After brief deliberation, she answered, “I think so. Somehow, the ambience doesn’t feel so oppressive here.”

It took a couple tries for her to get it right, but it also somehow felt as if it took less of her energy to cast. Finally, the silvery field mouse materialized from the tip of her wand. “We’ve found a crypt,” she incanted to the intangible creature. “They’ve buried the dead with their wands.”

As they stepped toward the next of the stone vaults, inspecting the remains of another witch who uncannily resembled Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione recoiled. Draco looked as if he might be about to question her about her violent reaction to the long-dead woman in the tomb, but she was saved by Oona’s return patronus. When it spoke, it was in a carefully restrained voice that Hermione recognized as Oona attempting to reign herself in. “The wands are probably for the journey to the afterlife. Cauldrons were sometimes buried in passage graves, but I’ve rarely seen wands.”

When Oona’s wolfhound dissolved into nothingness, Hermione was struck by a sudden and permeating fatigue, stronger than ever. A wave of vertigo threatened to bring her to her knees, and her head began to pound.

“Herm- Granger, are you alright?”

“Sorry, I… I’m just dizzy.” She let go of his arm to sink to the floor, her legs giving way as they crumpled beneath her. “I need to rest.”

Hesitantly, he reached down for her hand. “I don’t think you should.”

She frowned up at him, even as her vision began to blur at the edges. “Why?”

“I think I know what this place is, and what’s happening to you.” He hauled her to her unsteady feet, and had to catch her when she nearly fell right back over. “The Blacks - my mother’s family, as I’m sure you know - were obsessed with blood purity...”

Hermione snorted.

Catching her meaning, he amended, “More than most.”

Leading her to a blank expanse of wall that looked as if it might someday be ready to be made into another tomb, he helped her lean up against it. Only then she did she realize that the effort of falling and getting back up - even with help - had made her have to catch her breath.

“My mother once told me that her ancestors had created a passage grave in Ireland. It must be this place - and if it is, it’s rife with dark magic, which is affecting you because you aren’t of Black blood.” Glancing upward, Draco shook his head. “Shockingly, Weasley was right.”

“What do you mean?” she managed, willing herself to find the energy to come to her feet on her own.

Looking at her meaningfully now, she thought he looked almost apologetic as he explained, “Before I came down here, he was blathering on about some idea he had, where the dark magic this place is imbued with, would end up sapping your energy to boost mine.”

“Right...” She did not like it, but it made sense.

“Also, I’m no expert in curse-breaking,” he added, looking meaningfully at the nearest of the mummies, “but I suspect your magic and your life-force is what’s being used to preserve…  _ them _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Can you believe it? Please let me know what you thought of this installment... and theories as to what you think is going to go down in the finale. I love reading speculations!
> 
> I have so much gratitude for my alpha readers, sarena and Witches_Britches. Without them, this story would simply be a pile of overused words and turns of phrase with very little emotional bonding between our two protagonists. Thanks for the (constant) reminders that I can do better. It is also because of Witches_Britches that you found the phrase "heavens to Zeus" in this chapter, which is not something I think I've ever typed out of my own free will. Hahaha
> 
> Irish translations are courtesy of the lovely and talented LaBelladoneX. Go raibh maith agat!


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